Caterpillar, a Paranormal Romance With a Touch of Horror (3 page)

“Secret,” he whispered.  Then, without another word, he jogged down the steps and disappeared into the inky night. 

I stood looking into the blackness.  The erratic temperatures had caused a thick fog.  I couldn’t see Tegan, but I heard his engine start.  I could barely make out two red tail lights as they faded into the distance.   When they vanished, I saw absolutely nothing beyond the square of yard illuminated by the porch light and the dim cone of light around my car. 

I really need some outdoor lights,
I thought with a shiver. 
There could be zombies in my front yard and I’d never know.

That night, icy blue eyes taunted me as I drifted off to sleep.  They ushered me into dreams filled with blood and death and, yes, zombies.

Chapter Three

Saturday.

The ringing of my cell phone woke me, not that what I’d been doing could really be described as “sleeping”.  I opened my eyes, debating the wisdom of ignoring the call.  I looked down toward the dresser, but my eyes went no further than my chest.  A huge spider was sitting there staring me down.  I stopped breathing.  Few things scared me as much as spiders.  As I watched it, praying silently that it wouldn’t move, the spider slowly raised its front two legs, baring its fangs.  And that should tell you how big it was—I could
actually see fangs. 

That was all it took.  With a scream that probably woke every corpse in the cemetery down the street, I shot out of bed and ran toward the door.

I stood watching to see where the spider went so I could kill it, but it never reappeared.  I gingerly ruffled the covers on the bed, thinking it might be trapped under there.  Nothing.  I made a mental note to call an exterminator on Monday.  I’d seen far too many spiders around the house lately, especially for February.

From behind me on the dresser my cell phone rang again.  I jumped and, much to my embarrassment, squealed a little.  I picked it up in one hand and had my other poised over it to lift the lid when an odd sense of apprehension came over me.  I call it the Charlie Brown syndrome.  You know, that feeling that there’s a dark cloud that’s hanging over your head, threatening to rain on you and no one else? 
That’s
the Charlie Brown syndrome. 

Pushing the feeling aside, I answered the call.  “Hello?”

“Happy birthday!”  And just like that the source of my dark cloud was revealed, the words themselves harbingers of a bad day. 

The familiar voice of my semi-boyfriend, Scott Newly, greeted me in the worst possible way.  A waspish comment popped into my mind, something about where he could stick his happy birthday, but, for the time being, my dysfunctional gate was fully functional and the words never left my head.  Scott was a nice guy and it was neither his fault that I hated birthdays nor that I had some self-control issues so why should he suffer?

I took a deep breath.  “Thanks, but you know how I feel about birthdays,” I said gently.

“I know, babe, but
I’m
glad you were born and I feel like celebrating.”

“Celebrating?”  This conversation was going downhill at an alarming rate. 

“Yes, celebrating.  They’re presenting Warren Borg with the key to the city tonight and I plan to have the most beautiful date there.  Plus there’ll be lots of rich prey for you to sink your claws into.”

I swallowed a groan of displeasure.  Scott obviously didn’t know about my deadly discovery only hours before and I certainly didn’t want to rehash the story so soon.  And, he was right.  Such a party
would
present a great opportunity for networking with wealthy high society types that liked to invest and juggle real estate. 

“I know you hate big social events where you’re forced out of ‘wallflower mode’, but—”

“I don’t have a ‘wallflower mode’,” I griped.

“—won’t you go for me?”

“I’m just not naturally comfortable in a crowd,” I continued, still stuck on the “wallflower” remark.

And that was true.  I had to work at being out-going.  Losing my parents at a young age had left me feeling insecure and vulnerable, not quite at home in the world around me.  I’d always felt inexplicably different, but I was becoming quite adept at hiding behind my gregarious mask. 

But Scott was right.  Rarely did I go and
not
end up with one or two good connections so it was usually worth it.  Plus it would make Scott happy.  I shouldn’t have needed any more reason than that.  The fact that I thought of that
last
was just another indication that my feelings for him weren’t quite…right.  I wanted to like him more, to
love
him even, but it just wasn’t there, no matter how much I tried to convince myself that it was slowly coming on.

“Please.  I miss you, baby.”  Scott’s last ditch effort was always guilt and, when he used it, he laid it on thick.  “You have clients that see you more than I do.”

“Alright, I’ll go.  What time?”  I mentally flipped through my closet, trying to remember if there was a formal dress in there that wasn’t thread bare from overuse.

“They’re serving hors d'oeuvres at six thirty.  I’ll pick you up at five-thirty, k?”

“I’ll be ready.” 
As ready as I can be anyway
, I added inaudibly.

Despite the previous evening’s monumental scrubbing, I showered.  I still felt like I needed cleansing after the gore of the day before. 

I lathered my hair and considered my wardrobe.  Nothing I had was suitable.  When accompanying Scott to
really
swanky events, one had to dress the part of the significant other of the Assistant District Attorney, rising star and up-and-comer.  Unfortunately, being outfitted with enough sparkle to reflect the shine of a rising star was expensive.   

I bit the bullet and decided that after I stopped by the office I’d head on over to a nearby upscale boutique that provided the upper crust with many of their socially acceptable ensembles.  It was called Priss—you do the math. 

I had slipped on my robe and was winding a towel around my head when the doorbell rang.  Déjà vu.  I tiptoed to the door and peeked through the peep hole.  Looking wall-eyed as he leaned in toward the little spy hole was the familiar face of my handsome brother.

I unlocked the door, thunder and lightning crackling in my little cloud as that sense of dread deepened.  My limbs felt leaden.  My brother only showed up when he was in trouble.  And when he was in trouble, he was
really in
trouble
.

I flung the door open.  As I stood looking at him, I could feel the tightness of a disapproving frown pinch at my eyebrows. 

Carter’s brown hair was short and kempt.  His hazel-green eyes, so like my own, were clear and alert.  He smiled, an action that turned him from handsome to devastating, making me immediately suspicious. 

“Look at you,” Carter said, a comment I found strange, but didn’t spend too much time dwelling on.

“Hey.  What’re you doing here so early?”  Eight thirty wasn’t so early for most people, but for Carter it was basically still night time.  Luckily, Curly’s, the body shop where Carter worked, had long hours and Carter worked second shift.  Perfect for those who were allergic to sunrise and the first few hours thereafter, those like Carter.

“Can’t I come by and wish my big sister a happy birthday?  And I brought your mail in,” he added, dropping a quick kiss on my cheek.  Carter handed me a bundle of mail and pushed past me.  He made it to the oversized chair that faced the fireplace before he collapsed.  “You had breakfast yet?”

“No and you know I hate birthdays.  What’re you doing here?”  Just like old times.  With Carter, I was always
repeating myself.  He was like a kid in many ways.  The only consistent things in his life were me, his job and
in
consistency.  He rarely went to church or visited Mamaw Huntley.  Occasionally he was a drug abuser, frequently he was an alcoholic, and almost always he was a philanderer.  Obviously, he was my pride and joy.  But, when it boiled right down to it, he was still just my little brother.    

“Actually, I have a favor to ask.  Jessica and I broke up and—” he began quickly, hoping I’d let him gloss right over that part.  I did not.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!  Back up.  What happened?’

“She dumped me.”

“Why? What happened?” 

“It doesn’t matter.  I—”

“Carter, tell me what happened.”  Carter had said from day one that Jessica was
the
one and Carter didn’t say things like that—ever.

“Cat, leave it—”

“Tell me, Carter.”

For two full minutes, we stared at one another, a battle of wills.  I had begun to think we’d reached an impasse, but Carter finally caved.  It was then that I knew just how seriously he wanted the favor.  He rarely gave up in a battle of
any
kind.

“She had gotten into some freaky sh—” he started, but, in deference to me, thought better of his choice of words.  After a pause, he continued, “stuff.  Plus I think she was seeing someone else.  That’s not why I’m here, though.”

“Then why
are
you here?”

“I was hoping you’d set me up with Mistee,” he confessed, assuming his most convincing expression of innocence.

“Mistee?  Why all of a sudden are you interested in Mistee?”

“I’ve always—”

“No, you haven’t ‘always’, Carter.  Just since I made the mistake of telling you she had a crush on you.  Why the sudden interest
now
?”

“I-I—”

“Carter, Mistee’s a nice girl.  She’s ready to settle down and you’re…well, you’re not,” I argued, both valid points.  “Plus, she’s not the ‘rebound’ type.”  The bigger issue was that she was a seminary student and Carter wasn’t capable of anything more than corruption.  He merely saw her as a challenge, her virtue as a worthy goal. 

“That’s the thing, though.  I think I
am
ready to settle down,” he announced with remarkable sincerity.   “I’m going stop partying.  Scout’s honor.  Come on, Cat, cut me some slack.  Please.”  When he saw I wasn’t softening, he added, “Pretty please.”

I gave in because I didn’t feel like arguing or trying to reason with him.  It was exhausting on a good day.  And today was not a good day.  “I’ve got to go to a party tonight and I’ve got two showings tomorrow.  I’ll try to find her after church in the morning.” 

“You’re the best,” he exclaimed, hopping up and heading toward the door.  “Call me when you get home.”

“You could come with me you know.  That’d be easier.”

“I don’t want to scare her off.  Just tell me what she says.”

“Alright.”

“Wanna get some breakfast?  My treat,” he coaxed.  He really was laying it on thick.  On generosity, Carter ranked right up there with Ebenezer Scrooge.

“Give me fifteen minutes.” 

“Why don’t you just meet me at the diner in a half hour?”

“Okay.” 

After Carter left, I sifted through the mail on my way to get dressed.  I paused when I saw a small, flat box with the name Jillian Deen in the return address.  Aunt Jillian, my father’s sister, had disappeared after my parents died in a house fire fifteen years ago.  No one had seen or heard from her since.  We all assumed she’d died and word had never made it back to us.

My feet could barely carry me to the bedroom fast enough.  Unanswered questions were already piling up in my head.  Where was she?  Where had she been for fifteen years?  Did Mamaw know she was alive?  If not, why hadn’t she contacted anyone?  What in the world could she possibly be sending me?