Short Story - There's Something Off with Jennie
This story was part of an entwined anthology
This story initially featured in an anthology called Murder Maker, which was about authors going to the mansion of a dying author named Lee Matthews to claim his legacy. We were each given a picture and told to name the character and write their story. It was the first time I had written in first person, which was perhaps why I got into Jennie’s head and basically fell in love with here. The publisher picked my story as the best, so I got to write the wraparound story as Jennie in the sequel.
I moved quickly from room to room in my townhome, making sure that all the windows were locked. It was a move made out of habit rather than necessity, as having my shit stolen was low on my list of priorities. The only possessions that I genuinely cared about were my Lee Matthews first editions, all of which hold pride of place on the top shelf in my makeshift library. There would be hell to pay if those books ended up anywhere other than my home.
While the temptation to load them into the rental car was overwhelming, the information packet from the Matthews estate clearly stated that only one item is allowed. Since leaving Lucifer, my bunny sidekick, behind was not an option, the books stayed behind.
I placed an envelope containing my will, including detailed instructions on how to deal with said books, on the marble kitchen counter. Aware that this trip might end in my sudden demise, it seemed smart to get my affairs in order before departing.
Pausing at the front door, I took one more look around my place. It held no sentimental attachment for me, yet I found myself feeling maudlin. Perhaps it was because this collection of bricks and mortar was the first place that felt like home for me, or maybe it was merely the goth chick in me telling me how to behave. I shrugged off the feeling, locked the door, and mentally prepared myself for the drive ahead.
Lucifer sniffed at the air as I slid into the driver’s seat. He looked comfortable enough n his cage beside me, but I reached across and petted him through the bars before I slipped the key in the ignition and started the car. Mirrors adjusted, I pulled out into the empty street and headed off in the direction of the highway.
Being behind the wheel of a car had never felt natural to me, but I felt comfortable as I eased onto the highway and settled into the flow of traffic. The sound of the wheels rolling across the tarmac filled the cabin and washed over me. I allowed myself a moment to think about the road ahead, but it was my path to this point that intruded my thoughts. Rather than trying to fight it, I leaned back in the seat and let the memories flood into my mind.
***
My mother always took real joy in telling me that I had shredded her pussy on the way out. It wasn’t until the first time that I used the “P” word in kindergarten that I became aware that such language was not the norm for children of a certain age. How was I supposed to know? After all, my introduction to the ABCs consisted of my mother referring to me as an annoying bitch cunt anytime I asked a question.
Given that my father spent most of his days in an alcoholic stupor, I needed to fend for myself from the off. Sure, daddy would do his best to offer up paternal love, but he didn’t have it in him. The love of booze was stronger than his love for me, or so it seemed back then. I can’t remember a time when he was ever sober and have often wondered if it was my mom’s sloppy roast beef genitals that drove him to drink. More likely, it was that she was as abusive to him as she was to me.
I tried to be a good kid, but the turning point came for me when I was eight. We were sitting around the dining room table; my mother glared at me as I ate, my father picked at his food between drinks. “How did something so ugly come from me?” mom asked.
It wasn’t every night that she picked on me, but I had learned to keep my mouth shut when she did, so I continued to eat, head down.
“I asked you a question, cunt. How did you get to be so ugly?”
When I refused to look at her or answer, she slammed her palms on the table. The force of the impact caused peas to jump off my plate. They rolled off the table and onto the carpet. I watched them go, and while my feet barely touched the floor, I was still able to grind a few of them into mush on the beige carpet. I looked at her then and said, “Now, your carpet is ugly, bitch.”
She stared at me, mouthing hanging open like a hooked fish. I was as though I had slapped her in the face, and I felt a shiver pass through me. It was at that moment that I realized that my words had power. I resolved to learn them all, to build a vocabulary that would strike down my demon mother every time she tried to put me down.
Mom pushed back her chair and stood, face the color of cherry sauce, and pointed in my direction. “You vile little whore,” she roared. “I never wanted you. NEVER. You tore me open and ruined my body, and what thanks do I get? NONE.”
I smirked as she unleashed her torrent of abuse, which only inflamed her more.
“What are you smiling about? I hate you; I hate everything about you. That black hair of yours makes you look like a fucking witch, and now you are talking like one, too.”
I mused that her accusations of my witchery based on language were a little rich given that she spouted curse words like a drill sergeant with a bunch of raw recruits. I knew that she hated my hair. She had made numerous attempts to dye it a variety of different shades of blonde, but nothing ever took. The black always won out, and I imagine some of the darkness seeped inside, coating my cold heart when my mother shrieked in frustration after every failed dye job.
Mother continued to rant and rave, but I stopped listening after the witch comment. My dad tried to calm her down, but she swatted him away like a fly. A few drops of his beer spilled on contact, which seemed to take all the fight out of him. Alcohol preservation was at the top of his to-do list, with a happy home a long way down the totem pole.
Once her tirade ended, she made me clean up the mushed peas on the carpet, after which I ended up on dishwashing duty. I never let her know that washing dishes was one of my favorite things. I loved how tall I felt when I stood on the little step stool to reach the sink. I would peer through the blinds of the window over the sink and imagine worlds far away from home, far removed from the detritus piled in our overgrown backyard.
My father came to visit me in bed that night and told me that he loved me and thought I looked beautiful. He smelled of cheap aftershave and dried piss, and he looked twenty years older than he was. The lines on his forehead ran as deep as the Grand Canyon, the whites of his eyes stained yellow, as though they had been fed nicotine. His breath was the stuff of nightmares, and I could smell it long after he had wobbled off to the couch to sleep off the twelve-pack he had downed that night.
Sleep was tough to come by that night. I tossed and turned, thinking of new ways to hurt my mother. Words seemed to be the best way forward, so I vowed to pay a visit to the local library as soon as I got done with school the next day. It was then that sleep finally paid a visit.
***
Red and blue lights flashed off in the distance. Traffic had ground to a halt, so I slipped the vehicle in park and lifted Lucifer out of his cage. I stroked his ears and kissed the top of his head. I loved the feel of his silky fur against my skin, so I pulled him in tight against my neck, laughing as his whiskers tickled me.
The traffic ahead of us inched forward, so I put Lucifer back to bed and started rolling, but not before the driver behind me leaned on his horn. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I got a clear look at the car behind me. It was a beaten-up old Chevy, the guy behind the wheel probably a couple of decades younger than the vehicle he drove. I thought about flipping the bird, but rather than creating drama, I choked down my anger and allowed my thoughts to drift back in time.
***
The library doors refused to budge, no matter how hard I pushed. I could feel hot tears beginning to prick at my eyes, which only made me angrier. In a fit of rage, I kicked the metal plate at the bottom of the door. As I lined up the next blow, I saw an older lady come out of a room just beyond the entrance. She waved her arms frantically, signaling me to move back from the door, which she opened with a graceful flick of the wrist.
“Whatever are you doing, child?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t get in.”
She squinted her eyes and pursed her lips, giving me the once over. “If you are that desperate to get in, then who am I to get in your way?” she said as she stepped aside.
As I set foot inside the library, an unfamiliar scent wormed its way into my nostrils. It reminded me of old newspapers, withered and worn, and ready for the recycle bin. I paused for a moment and took in my surroundings. It was the most neatly organized place I had ever set eyes on, and I must confess that I was in awe.
“My name is Mabel,” the old lady said as she placed a hand on my shoulder. “Who might you be?”
I wasn’t entirely sure how to respond. Older folks usually demanded to be called sir or ma’am, so it was more than a little odd to hear a first name used in my presence. Finally, I meekly answered, “Jennie. Jennie Olsen.”
The old lady smiled, a genuine one that lit up her pale blue eyes and smoothed out the wrinkles spread across her high cheekbones. “How pretty,” she said.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“You can call me Mabel, dear, unless you’d like me to call you Miss Olsen.”
I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “No, thank you. Jennie is fine.”
Mabel wiped her right hand on the front of her floral dress and extended it toward me. “A pleasure, I’m sure,” she said.
I took her hand and gave it a gentle little shake, afraid that a ragged nail would tear through her tissue paper skin or that I might break one of her brittle bones with my young girl’s strength.
“So, what can I help you with today?” Mabel asked.
“I want to learn all the words.”
“That is quite the challenge, Jennie. I’m not sure any of us can do such a thing, but I can certainly help you get started. Follow me.”
She led me to the front desk and pulled a stool out front for me to sit on. Even perched on the chair, I could barely see over the top of the counter. It was enough for me to watch Mabel spring into action. She put on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, which she pulled down below the bridge of her slender nose, and then looked over the frames and started typing on the computer.
“Okay, I have your name, I need your address now, Jennie,” Mabel said, removing the glasses as she spoke, only to put them right back on again when I gave my answer.
Her hands were a blur as she hammered away at the keyboard, entering in all my pertinent details. She reached under the counter and pulled out a card with the name of the library stenciled across the top. She wrote my name and a number at the top and then slid the card across to me. “Go ahead and sign your name on the card, dear.”
Tongue stuck out, I scribbled my name on the available space and handed it back.
“Perfect,” Mabel cooed. “ Now all I need is for one of your parents to come in and sign this, too. Then you can start taking books home with you.”
My heart sank. I knew that neither of my parents would ever set foot in the library. Mother would never do anything to help me, and dad wouldn’t dare leave his liquor unguarded for any length of time. “Just forget it,” I mumbled.
“Well,” Mabel said, “We can’t have a budding wordsmith miss out on an adventure due to a technicality. I’ll tell you what I can do. How about I act as your library parent?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, choking back tears.
“It’s simple, really. You can read as many books in the library as you wish. I’ll allow you to take home one per week, but you need to return it on time. If you can do that, I’ll start letting you take more. How does that sound?”
“It sounds amazing,” I beamed.
Mabel placed the library card inside a little plastic sleeve and handed it to me. As I was about to grab it, she pulled it back, a serious expression etched on her face. “You need to look after this card. It is your ticket to the words that you crave. Can I entrust you with this power?”
“Yes, you can, Miss Mabel.”
She smiled broadly and handed me the card. “Let’s get you started then, shall we?”
***
The sound of the blaring horn behind me plucked me back to the present. The traffic ahead of me was moving, and Chevy boy was not pleased that I was not keeping pace. This time, I gave him the finger before putting the car in gear and moving forward.
I smiled as I saw him raging in the rearview mirror. Lip reading was not one of my talents, but I had been around enough curse words in my time to be able to pick out a few choice phrases.
As soon as the traffic started to move and thin out, he steered into the left lane and pulled level with my car. I rolled down the power windows and turned to face him, just in time to catch him gaining his composure. The anger drained from his face, replaced by a smile and a mouthed apology. His smile grew wider as I winked at him, but it quickly faded when I once again extended my middle finger and tore off, leaving his lumbering Chevy trailing in my wake.
My looks have helped me countless times in the past to get what I wanted. The jet black hair and pale features that my mother hated were mostly beloved by the male species. Curves in all the right places, a little splash of black eyeliner and lipstick, combined with visible tattoos, were more than enough to have men begging for my company. I liked it when they begged, and while I sometimes caved and allowed them in, it was always women who had a better shot at sharing my bed, although never for long.
Time spent alone has always been where I have felt most comfortable. This was even true of my years with Mabel. As much as I loved that woman, I would still seek solace in my own company from time to time. It was only once that time came to an end that I wished I had been more present.
Peeking down at the dashboard, I noticed that the fuel gauge was creeping inexorably toward empty, so I pulled into the exit lane and kept an eye open for gas stations up ahead, all while thinking of Mabel and the demise of the library.
***
Mabel went above and beyond to help craft my love of books. Every time I set foot in the library, she would have a small stack of books set aside for me. The titles covered every genre imaginable, but it quickly became apparent that my tastes ran more to the darker side of things.
The Witches by Roald Dahl was the first one to set me on my dark path. While most kids my age would have balked at reading about covens of child-hating witches, I found myself sucked into the fantasy world. I read that book countless times, much to the chagrin of Mabel, who was always trying to slip lighter fare into my increasingly horrific catalog of titles.
To my delight, Mabel gave up her noble cause. While she still delivered the occasional heartwarming paperback, she began loading me up with a seemingly endless treasure trove of Goosebumps books.
I can safely state that R.L. Stine was my first love, with Slappy the Dummy running a close second. I devoured those books, taking them to my cozy spot on the statue sitting outside the library. The structure was designed to look like boat sails, but the effect was lost once the town council decided to drain the pond surrounding the statue. It soon became a moldy looking piece of deformed metal, but it was easy to climb, and it held the perfect hiding spot for me to read and eat the sandwiches that Mabel always packed for me.
The library became my second home, with Mabel and I communicating without speaking much. All I wanted to do was absorb all the words as quickly as possible. Mabel would often try to learn more about my school life, knowing better than to bring up how things were at home, but I would either dodge the question or deliver generic answers, revealing as little as possible. I could tell that she was a little hurt by my reluctance to open up, but she never complained.
People have always assumed that I must have had many memorable life moments since becoming a bestselling author, but nothing has lived up to the magic of my thirteenth birthday. That was when Mabel brought Lee Matthews into my life.
I stomped into the library and dumped my bookbag on the table that was my designated homework spot. Mabel insisted that I do schoolwork before picking up a book. It was not one of my favorite rules. I learned nothing of value within the walls of my school, or so I believed. The only education I needed was tucked away between the front and back covers of the books I held dear.
Mabel placed a bag of chips and a diet soda on the table. Let me know when you get done. I have a surprise for you.”
“What is it?” I asked, tearing open the chips like a savage.
“Eat your snack, do your homework, and then we’ll talk. And stop being such a grumpy bug, it is your birthday after all.”
Had it not been for Mabel, I would never have remembered my birthday. My parents had long since given up on recognizing what should have been a special day. Mother barely acknowledged my presence as it was, so expecting anything but disdain was simply not possible.
I wolfed down the chips and soda, leaving oily fingerprints on my school assignments, which I completed in record time. “I’m finished,” I called out across the library, which prompted an immediate shushing from the ever efficient Mabel.
She shook her head as she came towards me, a gift-wrapped package and an envelope tucked under her scrawny arm. “How many times have I told you about hollering in here?”
“I’m sorry, Mabel, but it’s only you and me in here.”
“That makes no difference to the rules of the library. Plus, a young woman should always maintain a certain level of decorum. Yelling like a banshee does not fit that bill, nor does having chips stuck to your face,” she said as she handed me a napkin.
Wiping away the stray crumbs from around my mouth, I watched as she sat across from me and slid the package and envelope across the table. “Happy birthday, Jennie.”
The shape of the present was clearly that of a book, so I tore that open first, letting out a little gasp at the sight of a skull dripping blood on the cover. I picked up the hardcover and pressed it against my chest, tears beginning to form and threatening to spill. Dabbing at my eyes with the soiled napkin, I looked at the cover again and reading the title: Death’s Warm Embrace by Lee Matthews. I flipped the book over and tried to read the blurb, but my tears made everything fuzzy and out of focus.
“Do you like it, dear?” Mabel asked.
Unable to answer, I nodded. Head bowed, I reached out for her hand, which she took in her own. Mabel caressed the back of my hand with her thumb, the simple movement slowing down my heart, which thudded loud enough to warrant another shushing.
“I’m so glad,” Mabel said. “It’s a special one, a signed first edition, so you need to be extra careful with it.”
“I will, I promise,” I sobbed.
“I know you will. Now, go ahead and open that envelope.”
My hands trembled as I pulled the flap out from inside the envelope. It was much too thick to be home to a birthday card, and while there was indeed one in there, it was the stacks of bills that caught my attention. “What is this?”
Mabel stared above my head for a moment, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I had asked her a question. I was about to ask again when she looked at me and began to speak.
“I have been the sole custodian of this library for over forty years, Jennie. In that time, I have seen a lot of people come and go, but not a single one of them made the impact that you did. From the moment that I saw you ready to launch a kick at my front door, I knew you were special. I have been blessed to be proven right over the last five years.”
Blinking furiously, I tried to hold emotions in check, but I failed.
“I never had a husband or a child. I always lived alone, and I will die alone. I am at peace with that now that I have you as a friend. There is no other person more deserving of my nest egg than you, dear, so there you have it.”
“I can’t accept this,” I said. “It’s too much.”
“It’s nowhere near enough to repay you for the joy that you have brought into my life. They would have mothballed me long before now were it not for you, but the time has come. The library is closing in a month, and I won’t be here to witness it. That would be too much pain to handle.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mabel.”
“Yes, you do. Who is ever in here, but you and I and a couple of relics older than I am?” Everyone goes to the big new library downtown. Progress leaves the best of us behind. I can’t catch up, but you’ll have plenty of time to race ahead of them all. I love you, Jennie Olsen.”
Racing around the table, I threw myself into Mabel’s arms and held her close. I felt her bones poke me from under her dress, felt her tears fall onto my shirt, and soak through the fabric. I held on tight for what felt like hours, and then we talked. I answered all the questions she had asked me over the years, and she smiled as I babbled on.
Mabel waved at me as she flipped over the “CLOSED” sign for the final time. I returned the gesture and watched as she turned off the lights, the glow of her office lamp casting her in shadow on the sidewalk before me. It was the last time I saw her alive. The final time was at her funeral, which came days before the town razed the library to the ground, burying Mabel’s memory under so much rubble.
***
Turning off the highway, I passed by several large gas stations, their pumps brightly lit under rows of fluorescent lights. I needed something smaller, something a little more out of the way, which I found a few miles east of the interstate.
I drove past the mom and pop gas station, the two pumps standing like guards of a bygone era. They sat under a pole with a single low-watt bulb attached, the light from which was barely enough to cast a shadow. On the porch of a rickety cabin, an older man sat puffing a cigarette, oblivious to the fact that a shit ton of gasoline sat right below his feet. He never looked up as I passed by, and he certainly did not see me pull into a dirt track a few hundred yards up the road.
Grabbing a canvas bag out of the back seat, I unzipped it and hastily changed from my usual all-black garb into a brightly colored sundress that I would never have worn under normal circumstances. I tied up my hair and slipped a blonde wig over the top. My transformation became complete with a pair of high heels and the application of the brightest red lipstick I have ever seen.
Lucifer sniffed the air as I got back in the car, trying to figure out if the fair-haired woman beside him was the same one he had been traveling with for the past few hours. Curiosity sated, he went back to nibbling on a carrot.
My jet black eyebrows clashed with my wig, but I fancied myself as looking like Cara Delevigne. I didn’t see it as much of an issue, though. It was dark enough outside now to mask the contrast, plus I was sure that the old fella was going to be paying more attention to how tightly I had squeezed into that abhorrent dress.
Happy with the look, I went around back of the car and unscrewed the license plate and replaced it with one that I had lifted a few months earlier. I snapped on a pair of latex gloves, put the car in drive and headed back in the direction of the gas station.
Not a single piece of traffic had passed in the time that it took me to change, which was what I had hoped would be the case. The old gas attendant was about to light up another smoke when the glare of my headlights gave him pause. The look on his face suggested that he was surprised to see a customer, and his unsteady gait as he approached the car made me think that what I was about to do was going to be easy.
Stepping out of the vehicle, I stretched as though working out the kinks of a long drive.
“What can I do for you, ma’am?” he asked as he licked his lips and undressed me with his eyes.
“Fill it up, please,” I said, feigning a southern accent. “Oh, and would you be so kind as to check the oil, too?”
I popped the latch on the hood and then walked around the passenger side of the car with an exaggerated swing of the hips. I could feel his eyes bore into me as moved, probably willing his withered pecker to life.
Leaning into the back seat, I grabbed my purse from the floor and reached inside, taking the wrapping off the syringes that sat in one of the interior slots. I looked up just in time to see him look away quickly, as though he hadn’t just spent the last thirty seconds trying to peer through the window and down the front of my dress.
The lever on the gas nozzle closed with a loud thunk. The attendant rattled the nose in the tank and replaced the gas cap. He smiled at me as he fully opened the hood and checked the oil. I smiled back demurely, reaching inside the purse to ensure that the syringes were right on top.
“Your oil level looks good, ma’am. If you want to follow me inside, you can pay up there.”
It was a little surprising that he didn’t pull the ladies first routine, as I was sure that he would have wanted another lingering look at my ass. I followed him inside, the sour smell of rotten vegetables blasting my nostrils the moment I crossed the threshold. I tried not to gag as I scanned the little shop, looking for a security system or a camera. There was none.
“That’ll be twenty-seven dollars even, ma’am. No charge for the oil check,” he said, flashing a gap-toothed grin at me. The teeth that did remain were stained with nicotine and threaded through with black rivers of decay.
Trying not to shudder, I fished the syringes out of my bag, which I then dropped as I went to sit it on the counter. The remaining contents, which were few, spilled onto the floor. I let out a moan and muttered something about being a clumsy mess, but the old man never took notice. He came charging around the counter and dropped to his knees, which popped like Rice Krispies getting coated in milk, placing the contents of the purse back inside.
I readied myself as he slowly pushed himself up off the floor, gripping onto the purse for dear life. Holding onto the straps with both hands, he presented the bag, but instead of taking it, I drove the syringes into either side of the neck and pushed down on the plungers. His eyes went wide in panic, yet he held onto the purse for dear life.
Pulling out the syringes, I grabbed the bag and shoved them inside. The old man staggered and clutched his chest, the color draining from his as his life light blinked out. He fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth.
“Air,” I whispered. “Now, only fire remains.”
Taking one more quick look around the shop, I made sure that nothing from the purse was left behind. I had wiped down every item beforehand and had touched nothing between then and putting on the gloves. Still, I needed to be sure that no trace of my being there was left behind. Happy with what I saw, I left the store and drove back to the rutted path up the street, where I returned myself and the vehicle to their previous states.
I dumped the first couple of pieces from the canvas bag at a rest stop, miles from the gas station. The rest would be scattered in bathrooms and gas station garbage cans along the way. That version of Jennie was as dead to me as the gas attendant and the other two who had come before him. I smiled as another piece of my destiny fell into place.
***
With the library gone, I spent more time at home trying to mourn the loss of Mabel but failing to do so because mother would not allow it. She complained about my moping, telling me that I should be thankful for the roof over my head and the food in my belly. The fact that the roof was leaking and the cupboards were bare seemed to go right over her head.
The weeks slipped by as slowly as syrup penetrating oil. I sunk deeper and deeper into depression and used some of Mabel’s money to buy myself clothes at the consignment shop. The darkness in my soul bled into my outerwear, with every item of clothing purchased as black as coal.
I was never a popular kid at school, but I became a pariah once I slipped into the world of goth. I became a social outcast, but I was also a good student. Mabel had instilled a solid work ethic in me, and I refused to let her down, snagging straight A’s in every subject. There was no pride to be found in my academic achievements, though, as each passing grade simply reminded me of Mabel. I needed to find a way to ease that pain, which I did by creating new wounds.
My fifteenth birthday was still two months away when I made the first tentative cuts with a razor blade. I barely scratched the surface of my thigh, but the stinging sensation and raised red blood bubbles sent a joyful shiver down my spine. The cuts soon grew a little deeper, but I was smart enough to place them in parts of my body no one would see. It was not a cry for attention, but rather a freeing of my inner pain through bloodletting.
During that time, my dad had discovered weed, which I assumed he saw as the perfect complement to his alcoholism. Curiosity got the better of me, and I took to stealing the roaches out of his ashtray. If he noticed, he never said a word.
His weed was cheap shit, but the high it gave me was enough to further ease my pain. I would slice myself open with the blade, let the pain bloom, and then take a hit. The mixture of sensations was blissful. The downside was that I would crash hard once the high passed, which was usually quickly.
With money in my pocket and an increasingly bad attitude, getting in with the wrong crowd was not that difficult. Not that I had to spend much of my money to get drugs. I had filled out nicely by then, and boys were more than happy to furnish me with weed in exchange for an innocent squeeze of my tits. Things never went any further than that. Marijuana was my drug of choice, with everything else, alcohol included, off the table. While I enjoyed the escape that pain and a high delivered, I liked to remain in control, always in control.
Life seemed manageable then, but it didn’t stay that way for long. Mother made sure of that when she found my weed and my money, setting off a chain of events that turned everything on its head.
“There you are, you filthy little whore. How is it that your father and I are hungry, yet you are selling drugs and stashing away money,” she screamed as soon as I walked in the front door.
“What were you doing in my room?”
“This is my house. You just live here, bitch. I can go wherever the fuck I please.”
“Put mishit back where you found it,” I fumed.
“Fuck that. I knew you were up to something. I KNEW IT. This money will cover rent for the next couple of months and put food on the table. Let’s call it partial payment for all the stuff I have given you over the years,” she said, stuffing the wad of bills down the front of her shirt.
I balled my fists at my side. “Give it back, or I’ll...”
“You’ll what? Mope some more. Go fuck yourself; you owe me.”
A red mist descended as I charged across the living room. I had time to see my mother’s mouth form into a perfect “O’ before I smashed my fist into her face. My knuckles split open upon contact with her teeth, and I used the pain as fuel as I pummeled her face and body.
Tearing open her shirt, I pulled my money and weed out of her bra and stood over top of her as she cowered on the floor. I turned to go to my bedroom, but paused, turned back around and kicked her in the stomach, my army boot delivering a hammer blow.
As I closed the bedroom door behind me, I heard mother moan, “Oh, bitch. You are fucked now.”
***
The ringing phone jarred me out of my sleep. I reached over to the bedside table and picked up the receiver. The voice on the other end of the line informed me of my seven a.m. wake-up call, which immediately set me into action. If I wanted to me at the Matthews estate at the time stated in my welcome letter, I needed to get moving.
Hopping out of bed, I prepped the coffeemaker and headed for the shower. I turned the water to the highest heat setting and allowed it to wash over me. As I rubbed the soap over my body, I felt the raised welts created by years of cutting. It had been a while since I had taken a blade to my skin, but feeling those bumps always left me craving more, like a junkie fixing for a hit.
I let my fingers linger on the welts for a moment, savoring the memory of pain that each delivered. Memories were all I allowed myself now. Control needed to be maintained at all costs if I was to fulfill my destiny. Any self-inflicted cut, no matter how small, would require me to begin again. Since I had one but shot at Matthews and his legacy, control was a must.
Turning off the water, I grabbed a towel and quickly dried myself off. The coffee was ready and calling my attention, so I poured myself a cup and sipped on my brew while I laid out my clothes for the day. First impressions were important, which was why I had splurged on a new outfit in my favorite: black satin shirt, black jacket, and a pair of black pants that were a good deal more stylish than my regular daily wear.
After I dressed, I placed Lucifer’s cage on the bed, opened the door, and allowed him to explore the surrounding area. He eyed me intently as I applied my make-up, the dark purple lipstick a particularly bold choice. Pleased with how I looked, I packed up the rest of my stuff and checked out using the TV in the hotel room. It was time to get on the road, as I planned on getting there early.
***
At first glance, Woodland Hills Retreat looked like a spa designed for rich white folks with money to burn. In reality, it was home to wayward teenagers who needed help getting back on the right track.
Mother had called the police minutes after I had laid the beating on her. The red and blue lights in the driveway had given me a good heads up, allowing me to dump the weed down the toilet before the boys in blue came to take me away.
Initially, I went to a youth detention center, but once they heard my story and saw my scars, the courts decided that psychological help was what I needed. Mother did not press charges, probably because an investigation might reveal some home truths, but she did sign the paperwork that would send me away to Woodland Hills for a year, all on the government’s dime.
While the idea of being locked up in some juvenile delinquent country club did not initially appeal to me, I quickly came to like the place. The staff was kind, the food was good, and I could relate to most of the kids. There were some exceptions, which were mostly the spoiled rich kids who were crying out for attention rather than dealing with the trauma of real suffering.
I forged a bond with Lucy McCallister right from the start. She was a butch girl with a hot temper, but she loved me from the moment she set eyes on me. I let her take my virginity, not because I was attracted to her, but because she was easy to mold. Lucy would do anything I asked of her, a trait that I had, over the years, discovered that I really liked. It felt good to be in charge, even if that meant letting her finger me every now and again as a bonus for her servitude.
Jake Patterson was a different matter altogether. The first time he saw me, he handed over a journal and a pen and encouraged me to write. I asked why I would do such a thing, and he said that he saw it in me. Jake would not fit under my thumb, and while I found that to be frustrating, I felt drawn to him.
The staff at Woodand Hills encouraged us to explore nature as part of our healing. Jake and I would veer off the forest trails and head to a lake that no one else seemed to know existed. There, he would read to me from his journal, telling tales of dragons and lost cities. The stories were juvenile and poorly written, and I found myself expanding on those tales in my journal.
In a little over a month, I had a novel penned, which I showed to one of the counselors. She read the whole thing in a day and allowed me access to the computer in her office so that I could type it out and print it. She told me that she had a friend in the publishing industry that she would talk to about my story.
Weeks passed with no word from Ms. Culver, my counselor, so I assumed that my story was not up to par. I hadn’t expected much, so I wasn’t particularly disappointed. Plus, I had written plenty more since then, as Jake seemed to have an endless supply of journals. He was right; I did have a knack for writing.
As we sat by the lake, Jake turned to me and said, “I have a special story for you today.”
“You do, hug?” I replied, punching him lightly on the shoulder.
He shrugged off the contact, his dark eyes clouding over at my touch. “Please don’t do that.”
I waited for him to get composed, knowing that he would clam up if I forced the issue.
“It’s a special story,” he said, wiping a lock of greasy hair away from his slender face.
“Why so special?”
“Because it’s real. It’s from a book of spells that I found buried in my back yard.”
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a leather-bound book. The red cover bore signs of damage, but I could still make out gold symbols etched into the leather, like tattoos on aging skin.
“Have you tried these spells?” I asked, trying to keep the mocking tone out of my voice.
“Uh-huh, but they don’t work for me,”
I thought that to be rather convenient, but intrigued, I asked, “Then why are you showing them to me.”
“You have the power, Jennie, like a witch.”
“Careful,” I said, thinking of all the times mother had taunted me with that name.
“What is it you want most from this life?”
“Getting my book published would be a good start,” I laughed.
“I’m serious, Jennie.”
“Okay. How about being the best writer in the world and having one hundred million dollars in the bank.”
Jake opened the book and flipped through the pages, going back and forth as though searching for something specific. I tried to catch the words written on the pages, but all I could make out were weird runes and symbols. It felt as though Jake was pulling my leg, but he was a serious type. Never once in my time at Woodland Hills had I seen him so much as crack a smile.
Finally, he stopped flipping and tapped his finger on the page. “Here it is,” he said.
“What’s the spell?” I asked.
“The elements. Do you want your dreams to be fulfilled?”
“Yes.”
“Then give me your hand.”
Nervously, I reached out my hand and let him take it. He held it over of the book, turning it this way and that before nicking my flesh with a ragged nail. “Jesus, Jake,” I yelped, pulling my hand away, but not before a drop of my blood dropped onto the paper.
“To complete the spell, you must kill four people. One with air, one with fire, one with earth, and one with water. Do you understand?”
Before I could answer, Lucy charged out of the trees, screaming blue murder. “Get away from her. She’s mine.”
I watched as she threw herself at Jake, knocking him backward, the spellbook flying out of his hands. Seizing the opportunity, I picked up the book as Lucy and Jake fought. Flipping open the pages, I found the spot where my blood, already dried, had fallen. I touched the red stain and felt an electric shock zip up my finger.
Dropping the book, I hefted a thick branch and swung it at Lucy, who had straddled Jake so that she could hold him down and choke him. The wood splintered as it made contact with the back of her skull. She flopped sideways, out for the count while Jake panted and gasped for breath. Grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, I dragged him to the water’s edge and flipped him over onto his belly. Sitting on his back, I shoved his face into the water, holding him under while he thrashed for his life.
Once I was sure he was dead, I grabbed Lucy, who was out for the count, and placed her on top of Jake. I gave her a couple more whacks for good measure, threw the book out into the middle of the lake, and bolted back to Woodland Hills, screaming all the way.
***
I pulled into the rest stop area and parked in front of the trash can, where I ditched the empty canvas bag. The water in the drinking fountain was cold and tasted fresh, so I dumped out Lucifer’s old water and filled him up. We were little more than an hour away from the Matthews estate and well ahead of schedule, just as I knew we would be.
Since Jake’s death, things had gone my way, no matter what I did. After I had spilled my guts to Ms. Culver, telling her how my lover Lucy had killed Jake in a jealous rage, she informed me that the publisher wanted my book and was willing to pay handsomely for it. Water was all I could think of when she shared the news, giggling excitedly, even though a kid had just died on her watch.
Lucy pleaded innocence, but her ongoing anger issues, as well as the bruises from her fingers on Jake’s neck, sealed her fate. I thought about Lucy and smiled at how her stupidity had allowed me to get off scot-free.
So close to my final destination now, I reflected on how I had gotten to this point—published at fifteen, emancipated from my parents and in my own place at seventeen, thanks in large part to my ability to buy a home with my advance, and now on the shortlist for a Hugo Award.
Sure, I had to spill some blood along the way, but my journey was now just a day or two away from ending in a blaze of glory.
***
I was exhausted. The third book in my Dragons of Endwick series was due in less than a month, and I was nowhere close to done. Typically, the publisher would cut me some slack, but they were feeling pressure from the studio that wanted to make movies from all three books at once. They couldn’t start without a finished copy of the book, so my feet were being held to the fire.
It had been a while since I had last thought of Jake’s spellbook, but once the image of it returned, it consumed my every waking thought. Water had worked before, so why not move on to earth to see if that could give me the jolt I needed.
Standing at the base of the trailhead, which I had visited every day for a month, I stretched out my limbs and waited for my target to appear. I’d met Brendan for the first time a couple of weeks ago while scoping out potential victims. I liked that he always arrived early to beat the crowds, even though I had rarely seen more than two people on any given visit. I had chosen this trail wisely.
Brendan was a nice enough guy, but he was dumb as a rock. The typical jock type, he cared more about getting into my pants than he did about me. I had created a backstory to spin to him, but he never asked for anything other than my name. As my workout clothing became tighter, his interest in anything other than my ass waned. Brendan was easy pickings.
I jumped a little when he grabbed me around the waist and shouted, “Boo.”
Heart hammering, I turned to face him, flashing him a huge smile. “Hey, handsome,” I said.
“How you doing, Goldilocks?” he said, reaching out to touch my blonde wig.
Swatting his hand away, I turned toward the trailhead. “We’ve got a big run ahead of us. Think you can keep up?”
“Lead the way,” he said, grinning lecherously.
Setting off up the trail, I set a steady pace that I knew Brendan would be able to follow with no problem. I was not the fittest girl in the world by any stretch of the imagination, as sitting at a desk typing all day is not an aerobic exercise. Still, I was young and in decent shape, so moving at a brisk pace along a mostly flat trail was not that difficult.
I casually glanced from side to side, looking for the markers that I had placed earlier. Once they started to appear, I feigned tiredness and turned back to face Brendan. “How about we stop for a water break?” I said.
He flashed me a thumbs up and slowed his pace so that he could pause the stopwatch on his rest. I planted myself on a rock and reached inside my backpack, where I pulled out two bottles of water. Tossing Brendan the bottle with the blue cap, I watched as he plucked it out of the air one-handed as he simultaneously removed his shirt.
After wiping himself down with the sweat-soaked t-shirt, he popped the cap and drained the contents of the water bottle in one go.
“Impressive,” I said, sipping at my drink like a lady. “Bet you can’t do it again.”
“Try me,” he replied, flexing his muscles.
I tossed him another bottle and fanned myself like a Southern belle as he downed the water in a flash.
“No pro…”
Brendan fought to speak as he staggered back and forth, reaching out for trees that were not there. He gawped and me and started lumbering forward, evil intent in his eyes, but he went down like a felled oak before he got close.
Moving quickly, I scooped up his water bottles and tossed them in my pack. He was heavier than I expected, but I managed to roll him off the trail and into the trees to the spot where I had dug the hole last night. Before I shoved him in, I covered his mouth and nose with Scotch tape. Once in the ground, I began to fill in the hole with the shovel I had hidden just off the trail.
The drug dosage in the water that he had consumed would keep him out for hours. He would be in the ground, long dead, before the effects of the drugs ever wore off.
I packed down the dirt as best I could before scattering leaves and branches across his burial spot. I went back to the trail and looked at the place where he now lay. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, I put on my pack, grabbed the shovel, and headed back to my car, encountering no one along the way.
“Earth,” I said to myself in the rearview mirror.
***
I arrived at the Matthews estate a full hour before the deadline. I didn’t see any other vehicles out front, but that didn’t necessarily mean that I was the first to arrive. As soon as I pulled up to the property, a young man in uniform came bounding down the steps. “Miss Olson, I presume,” he said, bowing slightly at the waist.
“Indeed,” I replied, stepping out of the car and stretching like a cat after a long sleep.
“Please allow me to take your things, other than your one personal item, of course.”
Handing him the keys, I reached inside the vehicle and grabbed Lucifer’s cage.
“That’s what you are bringing?” the young man asked, more than a little surprised.
“What else would I bring?”
“No offense intended, Miss Olson. I do apologize.”
Dismissing his groveling with a wave of my hand, I looked to the grand entrance of the home and saw Lee Matthews standing there, pipe in hand, looking every part the distinguished gentleman. “There he is, Lucifer, the man who thinks he can put me in some piddling contest for his legacy. How about we go in there and take it.”
Lucifer looked up at me, nose twitching. “Come on, my beautiful. Let’s go burn this motherfucker to the ground.”