Possession

POSSESSION

FEVERED SOULS #1

By S.K. Falls

Copyright © 2013 by
S.K. Falls

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the author

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

What's wrong with you, with us, 

what's happening to us? 

Ah our love is a harsh cord 

that binds us wounding us 

and if we want 

to leave our wound, 

to separate, 

it makes a new knot for us and condemns us 

to drain our blood and burn together.

—
Love
, Pablo Neruda

E
den,
North Carolina, my hometown. There couldn’t be a more perfect version of my own
personal hell than if the devil had designed it himself.

I
watched the encroaching wall of trees through my cracked windshield, a knot of
sadness and anger blocking my throat, inhibiting my ability to swallow.

In
spite of my best intentions, I was back, breaking every promise I’d ever made to
myself. I couldn’t believe I was returning to this place after only four years.

Eden
was one of those bucolic, idyllic towns people in the big city imagine when
they dream of retiring to the country. Bordered by mountains on one side, flush
with greenery and trees and every kind of wildlife, Eden was something out of a
fairytale.

I
hated it.

Just
seeing the cloud-choked winter sky pressing down on me—encasing me in a sphere
of gray and green—brought back the old depression, that sense of oppression and
helplessness. I tried to suck in a deep breath; a difficult task when the air
in my car didn’t work and I couldn’t roll down my window.

I
pulled over at Eden’s unofficial scenic overlook and got out to stretch my legs.
The overlook was a flat piece of land, just before you got to town proper, which
rose up over the valley beneath. The mountainside under me was covered in soft,
dense vegetation, like a carpet of green. Across the way, trees and fog clung
to the sloping land.

See?
It’s not so bad here, Cara,
I thought desperately.
It’ll be a nice break from Chicago’s pollution. And
Thanksgiving’s coming up. It’s good to be home for the holidays.
I shakily inhaled
the wet, chilly air and let my eyes wander for just another minute. One more
minute to collect myself before I was officially and irrevocably Back Home.

When
the first freezing drops of rain splashed against my skin, I squared my
shoulders and turned to make my way back to the car. But a patch of bloodstained
white fur, down a few feet from where I was standing, caught my eye.

Was
it an animal in trouble? Had it been hit?

“Hey.”
I raised my voice over the wind, but it lay there, still, most of its mass
sheltered by bushes. I pursed my lips and made a loud kissing sound, but it still
didn’t move. Sighing, I stepped over the rickety fence toward where it lay. I
was fairly good on Eden’s hills; I’d grown up playing mountain goat with my
dad, the unofficial wild animal rescuer of the town. It was his voice I was
hearing now, telling me to check on the animal, just in case there was a chance
it was still alive, that it needed help.

Kneeling
by the fur, I pushed a large frond out of the way to get a better look. I
stared for a long moment, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. “What
the....”

Several
dozen animals were scattered around in the large clearing past the thick bushes.

The
animals—rabbits, deer, raccoons, and gophers, of what I could recognize—had
scorch marks all over their bodies, the parts that were still intact. They’d
been ripped apart limb from limb, and the thick, choking smell of rotting flesh
curled into my nostrils.

When
my body caught up to my brain, I stood up and backed away fast, a hand clapped
over my gaping mouth. Swallowing deep lungfuls of air, I scrambled over the fence
and stumbled to my car, slipping and falling as my mind reeled with what I’d
just seen. Who—
what
—could’ve done that?

My
hands, sweaty and ice cold, shook like crazy as I struggled to lock the door
and start the engine. It took me a few seconds to realize that the weird wheezing,
groaning sound was coming from
me
.

A
thought hurled itself at me, like a brick to the head:
I’m completely alone
out here.
Whatever was responsible for the carnage I’d just witnessed might
still be here, watching, lurking. I put the car in drive and screeched back out
onto the road.

I
sped the ten miles into Eden, sliding over rain-slick roads, repeating the
mantra “holy shit” over and over under my breath. What the hell had I just
seen? What the
hell
had happened to those animals?

My
poor old car complained loudly any time I tried to push her over fifty, but I ruthlessly
held steady at forty-nine until I was within town limits. Slowly but surely, I
brought my frantic heart back down under control. There had to be a rational
explanation for what I’d seen... Right? There
had
to be. I just needed
some time to think rationally about it from a safe distance away.

Besides,
my brain was starting to get distracted by other thoughts and feelings. A sense
of impending doom began to creep up on me, a nostalgic depression at turning on
to the street that led to my mother’s house.  

W
hen
I pulled onto the small gravel road that led up to our one-story house, it was
like I'd never left. Even the rusty metal junk my dad used to collect (with a
plan to rework and sell them; he was a man of varied, inexplicable hobbies) was
still there, piled up next to the rickety wooden shed. The mailbox was still
bent courtesy of some drunken teenager.

I
parked next to my mom's beat-up minivan and sat in my silent car for a minute,
gathering my courage. My heartbeat was getting a little erratic again.

I
can’t go in that house. I can’t. I won’t.

I
imagined myself as chubby toddler Cara, kicking and screaming in the throes of
a monstrous fit, purple in the face, screeching, “I won’t go in that house!” That
relaxed me a little, and a smile touched my lips. It was my survival strategy
of more than a decade: when I couldn’t get a grip, I made fun of myself to snap
out of it.

I
could
go in the house, and I would. I didn’t live here anymore—this
wasn’t my life. This was a temporary measure. All I had to do was ace the
interview tomorrow so I could earn enough money to go back to Chicago. Or even
a city a little closer, if that was what it took. This was temporary.
Temporary.

I
repeated the word to myself as I got out and stretched in the gray drizzle, the
angry rain having calmed down in the ten miles I’d driven. Or maybe the storm
just hadn’t reached us yet. I pulled my hoodie around me and got my suitcase
out of the trunk. The rest could wait.

I
knocked on the door and stood waiting awkwardly. Even though l had a key, it
didn't feel right to just barge in after all this time being away. I hadn't
even come home for Christmas these past four years.

Too
soon, the door opened and I came face to face with my mother. Her hesitant
smile was reflected on my face. We were like acquaintances, forced to say hello
after years of not seeing each other.

She
was shorter than I remembered, and skinnier, but what my roommate Tessa had
called "skinny fat." There was an unhealthy yellow pall about her
skin, as if she was very ill, and her brown hair had gone almost completely
gray. I remembered a time when it had been the same shade as mine.

But
in spite of all those details, it was her blue eyes, so different than my own
dark ones, that made my heart clench painfully. If they’d been remote before,
they looked completely dead now. There was no color, no life, no essence of her
in them at all.

I’d
been planning to say something about all those slaughtered animals I’d seen,
but the sight of her unseeing eyes pushed those thoughts way back into the
recesses of my brain. It was all I could do to stand there, wondering what the
hell had happened to my mother.

"Come
in," she said softly, stepping aside.

I
tried to stop panicking as I followed her in. Looking around the dark, stuffy
room, it was pretty clear nothing had changed at all. The old his-and-hers
recliners were still there, both now pointed at the TV. On the wall were school
pictures of me, marching along from kindergarten through eighth grade.

I
glanced at her, but she just stood there, staring at nothing, seemingly lost in
thought. When I cleared my throat, she jumped.

“I’ll
let you get settled,” she said, shuffling over to sit in her recliner.

As I walked down the narrow hallway to my room, I heard the TV
come on. That sense of depression and captivity sank down on my shoulders
again. I’d heard the game show channel incessantly for all the years I’d lived
here after Dad had died.

She
slept, watched TV, and worked. That was her life. Mine was the mirror-image: I
lay awake all night, devoured books, and did schoolwork with a religious
fervor. I’d always known getting a scholarship to college would be my way out.

It
still would be. It was a promise to myself I intended to keep.

N
othing
in my room had changed, as I’d expected. Some of the people in college had
talked about how their parents had converted their rooms to offices or gyms the
minute they'd moved out. It took everything I had to not snap at them. Normal
parents were taken for granted too much.

My
mom had made the bed—or just left it made all these years—in my old white and
turquoise polka-dotted comforter and pillowcase set. In the corner, my desk was
empty, ready for a computer I didn't have. I'd done all my college work at the
library or on Tessa’s computer when she wasn't using it. My parents had been
too poor for a computer when I’d lived at home, and of course, after...the
accident, the thought wouldn’t even have occurred to Mom. Not that we’d have
been able to afford a computer on her waitress salary.

My
bookshelf, at least, still held some of the old volumes of my favorite poetry
books. I was looking forward to reading them before bed later tonight. I got
strength and comfort from those verses, like some people did from the bible.

Lying
down on my mattress, I stared at the popcorn ceiling, forcing myself to breathe
in and out, in and out. The mini-blinds were closed, but I knew what I'd see if
I looked out my window. Our gravel side yard, a rural road, and then nothing
but miles and miles and miles of woods with snow-dusted mountains hulking in
the distance.

And
the animals.

I
sat up, the horror of what I’d seen earlier crashing back down on me.

When
I walked out to the living room, Mom was still staring at the TV. I sat down on
the recliner beside hers—the one that used to Dad’s and was now nothing but a
reminder of what we’d lost—my eyes gazing at the screen unseeing. Was she even
aware of what she was watching, or did the noise work as an anesthetic?

"Do
you have to work today?" I asked at last.

"No."
Her eyes never left the screen.

Reaching
for the remote, I turned the volume down. She didn’t react. “Mom...” I waited for
her to look at me. It took about thirty seconds before she finally did. “I saw
something on the way in. At the overlook. There were a bunch of, of—dead
animals. Looked like they’d been ripped apart and burned.”

She
stared at me, the look of complete apathy in her eyes unnerving. Finally I
said, “I thought I might call the sheriff’s office.” But even as I finished, I
knew it was pointless, me telling her this. I honestly didn’t know if she even
understood what I was saying.

Reaching
out, I took her cold, thin hand. Was I seeing her differently because I’d been
away so long? It was so obvious now that my mom wasn’t doing so well. She
was
ill, just like I’d thought when she’d open the door; she didn’t just look it.
There was something very, very wrong with her.

She
continued to stare at me as I looked into her eyes, hoping for just a flicker
of
something
. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry I hadn’t called or
come home for the holidays. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry I’d left
angry, that I hadn’t really said goodbye. I wanted to tell her I’d left to save
myself, but I’d been selfish, and I should’ve realized that maybe she needed
saving too.

But
I said none of those things when I released her hand. “You know, living in
college, I learned to cook a little. I can make dinner tonight if you want."
I tried on a smile.

Her
eyes wandered back over to the TV screen and stuck there. "All right."

When
dinner was done, I set the table and walked out to the living room.
"Mom." She was asleep, her mouth open, her eyeballs moving from side
to side as she dreamed. I wondered if she saw my dad. I shook her arm lightly.
"Mom, dinner's ready."

She
looked at me, dazed, and just for a moment, a genuine smile crossed her lips.
"Cara," she muttered hoarsely. "You look like your daddy."
When her eyes drifted closed again, I didn't wake her.

I
sat at the dining table for twenty minutes, waiting for her to wake up. When thunder
began to snarl outside like an angry animal, I decided to hurry and get the
boxes from my car.

I
looked up as I stepped outside, missing the big skyscrapers and the busy,
bustling atmosphere of Chicago already. But the air was much more breathable
here, at least. I stretched my arms above my neck as I walked, a few cricks still
in my back from having driven twelve hours. My only breaks had been power naps at
the side of the road when I'd felt too foggy to be safe.

Another
rumble of thunder broke my reverie and had me hurrying to the car.

The
gravel crunched under my shoes as I listened to Eden’s natural melodies. An owl
hooted somewhere deep in the woods, and another owl answered; squirrels scampered
through some of the trees. I was leaning into the car, grabbing the box in the
rear passenger seat, when I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Someone’s
watching me.

My
mouth went dry in an instant; my heart felt like it would rip right out of my
chest. My thoughts might’ve been going a hundred miles an hour, but my body was
paralyzed with fear for a good long minute.

When
enough adrenaline had coursed into my system that I was able to straighten up
slowly and turn around, my frantic eyes swept the road and the darkened woods
beyond. But I didn't see anyone.

It
was impossible to describe how I knew that I was being watched—absolutely
nothing stirred. I tried to shake off the uneasy feeling, marking it down to
the scorched, torn-up animals I’d seen earlier. But then it hit me just how
preternaturally
quiet
it was. No more owls hooting, no snick and snap of
twigs as creatures roamed the woods. And it had grown perceptibly darker in
just the five minutes I'd been out there.

My
palms going sweaty, I grabbed the box from the seat along with the interview
outfit I’d hung in the back, and slammed the door closed with my hip. I didn't
want to give in to my panic, but I couldn't help picking up the pace as I hurried
back to the house. I locked the door
and
turned the deadbolt behind me for
the first time in the eighteen years I’d lived here.

Mom
was awake and at the table, silently waiting for me with a plate full of food. We
ate a cold dinner as rain began to pelt our house.