Scaredy Cat (3 page)

Chapter 5

“Blake Taylor doesn’t dream of Manderlay, but rather how to slice and flay.” Quinn held her glass out to Dawn for another splash of wine. “Her brain is in a galaxy all its own.”

“She’s eccentric. Her agent claims most writers are. I’ve never met another one to compare, so I’ll have to take her word.” Dawn propped her feet on the coffee table and sighed. “Does that mean you want to back out of being her tour guide?”

Quinn made a face. “We both know now that it’s more than that. I’m her assistant. Today, I took her grocery shopping, and the only reason I’m willing to take her to Oak Alley tomorrow is that she totally dissed Glenda Percy. Blake writes about ghosts, demons, and other creepy crap, but she’s the biggest scaredy cat I’ve ever seen. I had to bring in all her groceries because a bird gave her the ‘evil eye.’ Then she made me check all the closets and look under the beds for anyone who could’ve sneaked in while we were out.”

Dawn pursed her lips to keep from laughing. “She wouldn’t move into the house until I had it purified.”

Quinn’s brow shot up. “She’s a germaphobe, too?”

“Not that kind of purification. Her agent, Cassidy, and I had to follow an old woman around the house as she burned a sage stick and whispered some sort of cleansing ritual to purge the place of negative energy.”

“Are you kidding me?” Quinn sat up straight.

“I found it very calming. I had her do this place, and Landon hasn’t wet the bed since. I think I’m gonna have her back to do Hailey’s room again. If sage can do something to rid us of that teen girl attitude, I’ll buy it by the case and build a suite for the old woman.”

“Speaking of bad attitudes and spirits, Mom demanded to know where you were when I picked up her laundry last week.”

“I’ve been working and taking care of a family. I can’t go to that place and sit for hours. Every single time I go, she bitches at me for not visiting more often.”

Nelda had been in the home for a year and a half. Dawn had gone often during the first year, but as time passed, her visits became infrequent. As Quinn thought about it, she probably could’ve counted on one hand the times Dawn had been there the past summer. Of the three, Dawn did the least when it came to taking care of Nelda, but Dawn was the one their mother adored the most.

“You should go and see her. She isn’t going to be around much longer.”

Dawn took a long drink from her glass and leaned her head against the sofa. “We’ve been saying that for years, and she keeps hanging on. I know that sounds callous, but when will it end? She’s miserable. It’s hard to see her like that. I wish I didn’t have to. I want to remember her out in the yard tending her garden and yelling at Jacob because he was picking all the flowers.”

“I’d like to blot out the last ten years and go back to the time when she loved me.”

“She does, Quinn.”

“Bullshit. You know that picture of the three of us on her bed stand? She put the clock right in front of me. I’m dead in her eyes. I pray for the day that I won’t care, but it hasn’t come yet.”

*******

Blake shook her hands in front of her face. “Write something! Anything!”

She set her fingers on the keys and stared at the screen, but nothing happened. The pad on the armrest of her favorite chair had fallen off during the move. Perhaps that was the issue. She got up, found a towel and some tape, and made a nice soft cushion for her arm. She sat back down, tested it, then set her fingers to the keyboard, but they refused to move. The demented well from which she drew seemed to be devoid of restless spirits.

“Something…write something. What did you see today?”

Blake’s fingers began to move.

Cypress Glade was a quiet place. Children played ball in front yards, and lovers strolled hand in hand down sidewalks broken by the roots of ancient oaks. The late afternoon sun streamed through the boughs, spotlighting homes built at the turn of the century. One could be easily beguiled by quaint storefronts, pleasant smiles, and kind hellos. It was the kind of place that made…

Blake bit her lip. Names were the bane of her existence. As she pondered one that would fit her character, precious time slipped by, and along with it the story she longed to tell.

It was the kind of place that made Parsnip Whothefuckever want to let down her guard and forget the terrors that came with the night.

“And what terror is that, Blake? Dreams, memories, ghosts, perhaps the census form you refuse to fill out?”

Blake laid her head against the back of the chair and groaned. There was a time that stories played out in her mind with such vivid detail that she could barely type fast enough to record what she saw. Those were the days and nights she skipped food and sleep and nearly made herself sick. Her back and neck would ache from sitting for long periods of time. It was agony, but she missed it terribly. The muscles in her stomach constricted as she wondered if her own story was going to have an unhappy ending.

She got up and began to pace, a perfect evening wasted. Nocturnal for years, she spent her nights in front of the computer, her days sleeping. Lately, her evenings were spent watching too much TV and digging in the refrigerator. She leaned against the wall and stared angrily at her computer as though it was to blame for her block. It was new because in a fit of frustration and rage, she’d thrown the last one down the stairs of her apartment building, then cried as she picked up the pieces.

She sat down again, her fingers poised above the keyboard as a line went through her brain about a dark and stormy night. “Oh, God, I almost plagiarized Snoopy. Think! Think!”

Her hands dropped to the keys, eyes closed as she recalled something she started long ago.

Salty air whipped Carrot’s long brown hair and momentarily obscured her vision of the dark waters below. The wineglass slipped from her hand and quickly fell several stories before making a silent splash. No one noticed. She wondered then as she had the night before if anyone would take note of a body’s silent descent. Dawn was approaching; soon the ship would be in port. Excursions had been planned for the last stop. Afterward, they’d be two days at sea, and Carrot would return to a life she could no longer live.

Celery lay snoring on the bed a mere few feet away. One hand draped across his forehead, the other twitched slightly as it lay on his chest. Those hands at one time had brought pleasure, and Carrot had seen them bring death. They were clean, but as Carrot closed her eyes, she saw them stained with blood. She trembled at the memory of seeing for the first time the coldness in his eyes while he watched dispassionately as life slipped away from his victim. Disguised as a man and a husband, a monster slumbered peacefully as Carrot pondered her escape.

She’d have to be fast. Carrot could not afford to climb over the railing and debate. Someone would surely see her. No, she’d have to be committed and lunge. Water from that height would no doubt feel like cement, and if the fall didn’t kill her, then being sucked beneath the ship surely would. Timing was essential. The mighty engines would slow soon, a sliver of opportunity would present itself, but could she take it? Could she jump?

The monster would never let her go. She’d seen too much. Days were spent with her wondering when it would be her turn. When would Celery decide to cut her throat as he’d done to so many others? Carrot stared at the churning waters below. If she died, would it not be better at her own hand? Quick and painless, unlike what she had seen of Celery’s victims who lingered and suffered.

She was a strong swimmer, and already she could see the shoreline of Cozumel. Her hands were wet with sweat as she gripped the railing, her teeth hurt from being clenched. Do or die, maybe just die. Carrot clamped her hands over her mouth when a hysterical giggle bubbled from deep within and passed her lips before she could restrain it. She turned slowly, her heart pounding with expectation of finding Celery’s dark eyes upon her.

He slept. The great engines slowed, and she leapt.

Blake switched screens and searched the Internet for a cruise ship and stared at a picture in disgust. She flipped from one to another and realized that all the balconies were on the upper floors. Carrot would’ve surely died jumping from that height.

“I’m sightless, completely blind,” she lamented aloud. She turned and stared at the muted TV. There was a woman on a stage apparently arguing with another. Spittle flew, fingers were pointed, then one ripped open her own shirt, her breasts hidden behind a censor box. “Now that is some scary shit.”

Chapter 6

“Good morning. Are you ready to—” Quinn’s gaze swept over Blake’s black pants, shirt, and shoes. “What’re you wearing?”

Blake looked down at her outfit, then back at Quinn. “Obviously, something inappropriate, judging by the look on your face. The bird is back. Come inside, please.” Blake slammed the door when Quinn stepped over the threshold. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“It looks hot and not in that crazy sexy kind of way. I mean heat hot. It’s kind of the fall season everywhere else, but in South Louisiana, we wear shorts almost up to Thanksgiving. Don’t you have any?”

“I don’t wear shorts.”

“Ever?” Quinn asked in surprise.

“Never.”

“What do you sleep in?”

“That’s a personal question.”

“Okay,” Quinn said slowly. “Do you have a short-sleeved shirt that isn’t black?”

“Cassidy says I should wear clothes that match the persona that she’s trying to cultivate.”

“Are you recognized often when you go out in public?”

Blake shook her head. “I don’t go out that much, but the few times I have, no one seemed to.”

“Then why are you worried?”

Blake threw up her hands. “I wasn’t until you said something.”

Quinn rolled her eyes. “I mean, why are you wearing the black then? Wear something cool and comfortable.”

Blake huffed and pointed to the kitchen as she walked toward the bedroom. “Coffee’s made.”

“Do you mind if I just grab a Dew?” Quinn called after her.

“Help yourself,” Blake said, then a door closed.

Quinn opened the stuffed refrigerator and pulled out a soda. She returned to the living room and glanced at the computer in the corner. It was on, and there was something on the screen. She moved closer to it and asked loudly, “Is this your next book?” There was no reply, so she took a quick peek.

Quinn stared at the opening that led beneath the house as a foreboding swept through her.

“That’s the only way you can get in,” Glenda explained. “My husband, God rest his soul, had it enclosed to keep animals from getting under the house. A raccoon built a nest there once and made a terrible mess.”

Quinn felt a trickle of sweat slip down her spine as she took out her flashlight. The air coming in from the door smelled stale with a hint of decay. She suspected that despite the effort, something had gotten in and had died. She took a breath and steeled her nerves as she slipped down into the darkness. The earth felt cool against her heated skin. She rolled onto her stomach and crawled toward the sound of trickling water.

Note: Ask Quinn if she wears a tool belt or carries a box.

Cobwebs stuck to Quinn’s hair as she directed her light to the sound of the water. “Figures,” she said aloud just to hear her own voice, “the leak would have to be at the far corner.”

“It always is,” Quinn agreed with a nod as she took a seat and continued to read.

Something reflected the light. Quinn crawled closer, her gaze fixed upon the shiny metal. It was not uncommon to find what she considered small treasures beneath the old homes, some she was lucky enough to keep. Heedless of the mud that was soaking into her clothes, she crawled close enough to reach out and touch what she realized was a gold band. She tugged at it and realized it was attached to something.

Note: You used realized too much in this paragraph. Fix it.

With a grunt, she gave a final push and shined her light on the ring. For a moment, her mind refused to accept what she was actually seeing, a desiccated finger. Slowly, she moved the light over a hand, then an arm.

Her scream was muffled beneath the old house as she scrambled toward the opening, gasping for breath. Her hands clawed at the earth. She could hear footsteps above her and the faint sound of what she thought might’ve been laughter. Quinn’s own cries and screams masked the sounds. Her only goal was to escape the dark confines of what had become a tomb. Her back scraped against the flooring as she pushed her upper body through the door. Her feet pushed at the dirt beneath as she reached around wildly to pull herself out of the hole. Quinn never saw Glenda, wasn’t even aware of the knife that penetrated her flesh. And then she was falling. Stunned, she lay there gasping for breath as the door slowly closed and darkness surrounded her.

Quinn shot out of the chair like a rocket and crashed into Blake.

“Glenda killed me!” She pointed a finger in Blake’s face. “No, you killed me!”

“It’s okay, you were only a secondary character,” Blake said as she took a step back.

Quinn’s green eyes were huge as she shook her head. “No, it’s not okay. You just killed me. Did you dream that last night, or was that a fantasy?”

“You told me you were a plumber. That’s how I came up with the idea,” Blake said calmly. “I thought you’d get a kick out of being used as a character. I wasn’t really thinking of you when I wrote that. I can name her something else if it makes you feel better.”

Quinn backed up against the wall and took a few calming breaths. “It’s just a character.” She scrubbed at her face. “I don’t read horror or go to scary movies for this reason. It freaks me out. I know I’m being silly, but it really rattled me to see my name and what I do on that screen.” Quinn swallowed hard as Blake stared at her as if she were the insane one. “Glenda is a great villain, by the way. You don’t have to stretch to paint her as the devil.”

“She made me nervous. She looks like a bird with those beady eyes and the way she constantly cocks her head to the side. I think she’d make a great serial killer.”

Quinn nodded. “She’s murdered many a reputation. I thought you didn’t write slashers.”

“I don’t usually, but this idea came, and I went with it.”

Quinn smiled when she noticed the white T-shirt with a sketch of Mickey Mouse and the faded jeans Blake was wearing. “That looks more relaxed. The red Converse sneakers are a nice touch.”
You maniacal shrimp.

*******

It was a typical sticky Louisiana day, the sun shined brightly. Blake was slumped in the passenger’s seat with dark glasses covering her eyes. Quinn had seen her yawn several times.

“Did you write all night?”

“Some of it,” Blake said sleepily. “That’s what I do, write at night and sleep during the day.”

“So you haven’t had much rest.”

Blake shook her head. “I fell asleep on the sofa around five, so I got a few hours in.”

“You wanna nap while I drive?”

“Do you mind?” Blake glanced at Quinn.

“Not at all. You can recline that seat, the lever’s on the side.”

“No, if you were to hit something, the seat belt could decapitate me.”

Your mind really does go to the dark, Quinn thought as she stared at the road.

“What scares you?”

You
, but Quinn kept that response to herself. “The usual…spiders, snakes, rats. I see those things a lot in my line of work, but they never fail to get a scream out of me.”

“But you still face them, so they’re not a crippling fear. What terrifies you?”

Quinn smiled. “The price of gas.”

“You make jokes when you don’t want to answer a question and probably when something makes you nervous. Do you believe in ghosts?” Blake asked, her voice growing softer as she moved closer to sleep.

Quinn didn’t answer aloud, but she did. Her encounter with the otherworldly had been sweet, comforting. She’d sat vigil beside her father’s bed as he lay dying. It seemed that one day he was diagnosed with cancer and the next he was bedbound. Hospice enabled Malcolm to stay where he wanted to be, at home. Quinn, her siblings, and their mother took turns watching over him.

The day before he took his last breath, Quinn stayed with him while her mother shopped for groceries. She’d sat beside the bed watching him sleep. The sound of the oxygen machine lulled her. She felt her eyelids grow heavy and decided to busy herself with straightening the room. Quinn walked around the hospital-style bed picking up odds and ends left by visitors and caught a strong whiff of perfume. Malcolm’s mother had always worn Royal Secret. The scent Quinn remembered fondly because Grandma Delia’s clothes and skin always seemed to smell of it. She had searched for the source, thinking that her mother had put something of Grandma’s in the room to comfort their father and found nothing. The perfume remained concentrated in one area by the bed.

When Dawn arrived, Quinn had her stand in that spot without telling her why. Dawn sniffed and looked around. “I smell Grandma.”

“She’s here,” Malcolm whispered as he opened one eye. “She’s been here.”

Dawn had tried to reason it all away, but Quinn knew in her heart that her grandma was in that room because the following night when her father died, the scent vanished. She liked to think of them together in the afterlife. She liked to imagine her grandma in the red dress that she’d worn when she was young in Quinn’s favorite photo. Her dad in the soft white T-shirt that he used to wear around the house, his hair thick and blond and full of waves. No pain, no illness, just peace. Quinn would go to her own grave with that image in her mind and hoped to join them one day.

Though a soul probably didn’t need earthly food, Quinn hoped there were cakes, doughnuts, and a chocolate fountain surrounded by strawberries. That was her kind of heaven, and despite what Glenda had to say, Quinn believed she would get there. She imagined it a vast place, and people like Glenda could have their own corner if they were allowed in. Quinn hoped they never crossed paths because forgiveness was difficult to muster when it came to the judgmental.

She glanced over at Blake. Her hands had dropped into her lap, and her head bobbed with every bump in the road. Quinn realized then that she’d also been judgmental when it came to Blake. Calling her a nut case wasn’t really fair just because her brain operated differently than most. Everyone had a phobia or two. Quinn herself was afraid of horses. Of all the people in Cypress, Quinn should’ve been more understanding about being different, and she internally chastised herself for not being more open-minded.

When Quinn turned onto the highway that ran along the Mississippi River, Blake stirred, sat up straight, and asked, “How long was I out?”

“About twenty minutes.”

Blake pulled off her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes. “It felt like hours.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a camera. “What is that grassy hill that seems to go on forever?”

“The levee, the Mississippi is on the other side.” Quinn watched as Blake snapped off a few pictures. “You mentioned that your characters kind of sit beside you when you write and tell their stories. Was I the one who sat beside you when you wrote what I read earlier?”

“No, I was kind of forcing it, that’s why it seemed so choppy. I haven’t really written anything substantial in a while. It’s just not coming like it used to. But I feel like I have to create something because I have obligations to meet. So lately, I’ve been trying to force it, and when I do that, I write crap.” Blake pointed to something on the left side of the road. “What is that?”

“It’s an old store. I think it was built in the fifties.” Quinn slowed and pulled into the parking lot as Blake tried to snap pictures from the road. The dilapidated building looked as though it would cave in on itself at any moment.

Blake hopped out of the truck, looked around, then began taking more pictures. “Do you feel it—the history? The energy of the past is almost palpable.”

Quinn felt a burst of warm air when Blake had opened the door, but that was about it. “Are you seeing ghosts?”

“No.” Blake lowered the camera. “Take a good look at this place, then close your eyes. It’s almost dusk, there are cars from the fifties parked here in front. Men drinking nickel sodas and smoking cigarettes are standing on the porch. They’re watching women in pressed short-sleeved blouses tucked into long skirts, bobby socks around their ankles. This is the social hub, and from one of the cars, you can hear Buddy Holly sing
Peggy Sue
.”

Quinn smiled and opened her eyes. “Is that what you’re seeing?”

Blake nodded as she continued to stare into the past. “When it’s quiet like this, it’s so easy to imagine what must’ve been.”

“Do you wish you could live back in those times?”

“Oh, no,” Blake said as she climbed back in and closed the door. “There is no such thing as the good ol’ days. Every year in the past is filled with oppression of some kind or another.”

“Good point.” Quinn turned her truck around and pulled back onto the road. “I think you’ll feel a lot of energy at our next stop.”

Quinn drove for another couple of miles and turned onto a gravel road that meandered alongside sugarcane fields and eventually into a parking lot surrounded by oak trees. At one end was a ticket booth where a small crowd was gathered. She parked her truck in a shady spot, killed the engine, and prepared to get out when she noticed Blake, who had leaned forward and was staring up at the trees.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’re so many birds.”

Quinn could hear them chirping now that the engine was silent. “Do you mind if I ask why they terrify you?”

Blake sat back and exhaled a long breath. “When I was around seven, we moved to a place that had a lot of trees perfect for climbing. One in particular had a very low bough, so I climbed up there. It was great, wide enough for me to sit and swing my legs. I was waving at Mom and laughing when what she said was a mockingbird swooped down and started pulling my hair. It wouldn’t stop, no matter how much I flailed. It just kept coming at my head and my face until I fell. I was on the ground, and even then, the bird was relentless. I broke my arm that day.”

“That would make an indelible mark on my psyche, too,” Quinn admitted with a sigh. “Blake, these birds won’t bother you, but if there’s a mockingbird in the mix, I swear I’ll knock it into next week if it comes anywhere near you.”

“I have to warn you,” Blake said as she stared out the windshield. “My therapist brought in a parakeet one day so I could confront my fears. I literally wet my pants and nearly killed that bird. Stay close to me, please.”