Loss, a paranormal thriller (2 page)

Paul, smiling his dopey drunk smile, handed her the glass of sparkling grape juice.  The bubbles tingled like champagne, but she thought it actually tasted better.  Paul went to greet his brother and she found herself alone.  She looked around the large room.  Only two other people at the gathering were sober.  Lindsey, who had a darn good reason, and Imogene, who would never allow herself an instance when she was not in total control.

The revelry carried on until well past midnight.  Nathan followed them out since his car was blocking them in.  He helped Paul into the passenger side.  Angie hopped in, started the engine and blasted the heat.  The snow-packed ground absorbed the sound of everything but Nathan's crunching steps.

"You can stay over, if you want.  This snow's pretty bad."  Nathan leaned against the open door, as if he needed it to prop him up.

"I'm fine, really."

"It's no trouble.  Everyone else is staying."  Nathan's blue eyes had become glassy, but were still focused.

"Bizzy's been locked up all day.  I feel bad getting back even this late." 

"You need one of those little doggie doors."

"That's what I keep telling Paul, but I think he's terrified of burglars getting through."

"Those'd be some small burglars."

They laughed.  Bizzy was a caramel-coated Yorkie, a birthday gift from Paul two years ago.  He doted on that animal, and she often thought he liked the dog more than she did.

Nathan leaned in as if he were going to tell her a secret.  He kissed her cheek, pulled away, then leaned in and kissed her lips.

"Nathan!"

"Oh, shit.  I'm sorry.  Didn't mean to do that."  He pulled away as if shocked at what he'd done.  "Jesus.  Jesus, don't think I'm weird, it was an accident."

She could see how embarrassed he was.  He touched his fingers to his lips, as if they had played a trick on him.  But still, there was also the brief flicker of a devious smile. 

"Nathan--"

"Really, it's not like I planned that, it just happened, you know?"

"Nathan, stop.  It's okay.  You're drunk.  Forget about it."

"Right, sorry.  I will."  He closed the car door for her.  He held up his car keys for her to see, then motioned that he would move his car now.  He turned away, shaking his head as he went.  "Totally forgotten... like it never happened... stupid... stupid!" he chided himself as he climbed into his Passat.

She watched in the rearview mirror as he backed up.  She pulled out, drove up through the turnabout, then came back to exit.

She waved to Nathan, and he still looked embarrassed when he waved back.  Poor kid.  She'd known for years that he'd had a crush on her, and with so much alcohol in him, his inhibitions had weakened.  She put aside the thoughts of their next interaction, a most-uncomfortable time she was sure.  She needed to concentrate, especially during the first few twisting miles of the drive.

After twenty minutes creeping through the snow, the Pilot handled the final curve, opening to a long white line of snowy road.  Angie relaxed her grip on the steering wheel, glad to be on the home stretch.  After ten minutes, she saw Chase's Pitstop with its blue neon sign in the window proclaiming they were OPEN, though Chase Magill rarely kept his gas station open after dark.  A long stretch of woods crowded either side of the road; old-growth oak and poplar, bare of leaves in the depths of winter with gnarled branches stretching high enough to hold up the sky itself. 

Almost home, Angie.  Another successful night as designated driver.

After passing another dozen homes flashing white among the darkened tree trunks, she'd come across their gravel turn-off.  Their home had been built far off the main road, and its details remained unknown to the casual passerby.  Just the way they liked it.

Angie never considered herself reclusive until she met Paul.  Only then did she realize the value of space, the richness of silence.  Before they met, she'd been packed into a crowded apartment building with people eating, sleeping, and shouting within fifteen feet of her at any given moment.  The constant aural babble never bothered her.  It rarely registered.  When she met Paul, the whole world opened to her.

The rest of the Chandlers shared the same appreciation for space and quiet.  Bryce and Stephanie lived in the highest hills overlooking town.  Fletcher and Lindsey chose to live on a secluded property of ten acres--the remnants of a farm carved up and sold piecemeal until only a century-old farm house, a sway-backed barn, and five arable acres remained.  For them, it was paradise.  In his spare time, Fletcher grew squash and pumpkins, selling the surplus at the Grand View farmers' market.  Nathan was the only brother who lived in town, and still, his choice of home reflected his need for open space.  He lived in a sprawling loft apartment in a rambling old converted warehouse. 

Paul muttered next to her.  His eyes panned under his closed eyelids, twitching, as if he'd encountered something unsavory lurking behind them.  He grunted, drawing his shoulder toward the window as if trying to avoid something.  The poor man; he'd have a hell of a headache come morning.  She'd have to remember to get some aspirin in him before putting him to bed.  That always seemed to work for her on the rare occasions when she drank too much.

When she turned back to the road, something broke across the snowy road.  A shapeless black mass straight ahead.  Her immediate thought was:
Deer
, followed by
roadkill
.

One bad part of living in an area surrounded by dense forest, animals far out numbered people, and in many instances, had never learned wariness over the strange metal contraptions blurring by, inches from their woodland homes.  She applied the brake, gently, not wanting to skid if she hit a patch of ice, then pulled into the left oncoming lane.  The black murk followed her movements.

"What the...?" she said, her voice trailing away.

The headlights cut through the gentle veil of falling snow.  It wasn't a deer, and it wasn't an animal of any sort.  It was a man, dressed in heavy winter layers, all black.

She pulled the steering wheel to the right.  The man followed, seeming to hurtle toward her as her mind raced, though in reality he barely moved at all.

Once again, she pulled left, this time
yanking
, this time applying the brake, this time
slamming
the brake.  Still, the man followed, stepping into her path.  The brakes engaged, held firm, but the tires continued to slide through the snow, bearing down on the man.  The Pilot took a precipitous lurch left when the driver's side wheels hit the gravel shoulder.  The Pilot dipped and fell off the road, for a split second held in freefall--an altogether false serenity--then all was chaos.

The world seemed to quake as the Pilot plunged toward the tree line.  She tried slamming on the brake, but when the engine revved, she realized she'd hit the wrong pedal.  Tire treads bit through the snow before grabbing hold and sending them thrashing faster toward the wall of trees.  Shambling over several icy swales, dipping dangerously close to the tipping point, the windshield flashed the whiteness of the snowy embankment, then the black backdrop sky, then again, whiteness.  The embankment leveled, but the car still sped across the white, wind-blasted drifts. 

She braced for the impact, her elbows locking, as if she could hold back the impending violence.  Whippet-thin trees snapped like firecrackers under the Pilot's grill.  Branches scratched the sides of the SUV, the hood, the passing windows, hundreds of them, shrieking like nails on a chalkboard.

In an instant stretched beyond comprehension, an instant in reality compressed to less than a second, Angeline Chandler's life changed forever.  The tree loomed ahead like a black monolith, seemingly tall enough to touch the dim winter moon.  The tires ceased to vibrate against the frozen forest floor.  The violent jouncing changed, became something else entirely.  A sudden, final, crunching of metal.  Her chest lunged at the steering wheel, but the seatbelt locked in place, blooming pain through her sternum.  She heard snapping (branches, that's all, just more branches, not bones, no, no, no...) or maybe her ears were popping, like when an airplane changes altitude.

When her head whipped forward, a black curtain fell over her, as if she had merely closed her eyes.

She heard steam jetting close by.  When she opened her eyes, the first thing she noticed was the Pilot's hood crumpled high around the base of the tree.  Then broken windshield glass.  The driver side remained intact, spider webbed with cracks, but intact.  The passenger side glass was missing completely.  Snow flakes floated through the jagged opening, landing on the empty passenger seat.  The gritty whiteness melted into the seat's phantom body heat.

"Paul!" she gasped.  Her seatbelt wouldn't release--it felt like it continued to constrict as she struggled to regain her faculties.  A fierce, throbbing pain pulsed where the belt angled between her breasts.  "Paul!"

The engine clinked and died and the busted radiator sputtered into silence.

She fumbled for the seat belt latch, agonizing with the effort.  When she released the belt it felt like she could breathe again, as if she'd been underwater to her limit and had just resurfaced.  When she took in a deep gulp of air, the pain in her chest brought tears to her eyes.

"Paul, baby," she said, touching the passenger seat as if he'd simply become invisible.  When she looked up, she saw blood wetting the shards stuck to the windshield frame.  A size eleven oxford shoe sat on the crumpled hood, tipped on its side, still tied.

"Please." She was shivering, but didn't know if it was the cold or shock setting in.  Her fingers didn't want to work the door handle.  "Please, Paul, say something!"

"Mother-fuck, open!" she screamed, willing her hands to steady.  The door flew open on its hinge, nearly coming closed again after bouncing at its wide point.

She fell to her knees in the snow.  Flakes clung to her skin as she stood, melting, stealing her body heat.  She no longer felt the cold.  Her pain was lessening.  Pushed away for now.  A steady hum rang through her ears, a pleasant whirring she couldn't quite place.

She cursed herself for wearing heels.  Heels for a family party?  What the hell was she thinking?  Who did she have to impress?  It wasn't like with Paul competing with his brothers.

Or was it?

Paul competed with his brothers at the drop of a hat.

Angie competed with her extended family for the recognition of her mother-in-law. 

Imogene.  Genie to her friends.  Once and forever Imogene to Angie.  There had never been a suggestion of "Mom."  Not like Lindsey and Stephanie, who both had that consideration.

She steadied herself on her feet as best she could manage, the snow drifting halfway to her knees.  Her teeth clattered, but she felt warmer.  Heat pulsed through her cheeks, sweat runnels trailed the curve of her brow.  She felt along her face, ran her fingers through her hair, searching for wounds.  She found none.  Just the bruised sternum and maybe a sprained wrist from when her hand caught in the seat belt when the car struck the--

"Paul!" she called out as loud as possible.  She awaited a response, but when she didn't hear one, she worked her way through the frozen tangle of undergrowth.  It tore at her, leaving cold, biting traces along her legs and hands.  She had to lean against the Pilot's hood, forcing herself through the mess.  The car was still warm to the touch, snow melting upon its surface, leaving gleaming silver streaks in the moonlight.

The indentation in the snow couldn't be from Paul.  It was too spread out, as if a plane had made an emergency landing.  And the mass heaped in a mound at the terminus, it was far too dark and... mangled to be anything living.

She heard a sound, a gasped inhalation of breath.  Weak, but certainly real.

She ran the last ten feet, fell to her knees in the snow.  The window glass had sheared through the down of his coat, shredding the fabric to ribbons, sending a fluff of feathers tumbling along the forest floor.  She touched the familiar cotton shirt beneath.  She'd touched it a hundred times.  A birthday gift she'd bought him three years ago.  His favorite shirt, worn so often the soft cotton had only gotten softer with age--what Paul called "that broken in feel" whenever she would hint its retirement.  Light blue with buttoned pockets over each breast (in which Paul always kept little scraps of paper, lists of reminders and notes on upcoming projects).  The light blue now appeared black in the faint light.  And wet.

Please let it be from the snow, please.

Snow wasn't sticky.  Not normal snow.

The whirring in her ears became a buzz saw.  Her vision wavered, darkening.

"Ang..." Paul said, face down, leaching blood into the snow.

She leaned over him, close to his ear, her vision dimming to a meek glow.  "Baby, don't talk.  Shh, shh, shh--"

"Angel... love my... Angel..."

"Paul, don't."

"You saw him, huh?"

"Paul, who... did you see--"

"The bastard, he--"

Paul winced, as if enduring a mounting pain, then his face relaxed.  He was gone.

Angie rested her cheek against his shoulder.  She shut her eyes in a prolonged blink.  When she opened them several seconds later, her vision came to rest at an alcove amongst the tree trunks.  A shadow shifted, grew.  Stepped toward her.  It was a man dressed in heavy winter clothes.  All black.  Like death.  She blinked once, twice, when her eyes closed a third time, they didn't reopen.

Chapter 2

1.

Five years earlier, Paul revealed his dream to his future wife.

Angie couldn't see through the blindfold, but the sun warmed her face in flickering degrees and birds chirped in a riotous chorus, perhaps dozens of them.  Paul's hand was damp inside hers; she gave it a reassuring squeeze.  He was leading her under a canopy of leafy trees, she could tell by how the warmth of the sunlight played over her skin.  The ground was soft, but wended with roots.  Paul took care as he led her down the path, warning her around precarious rocks or thorny underbrush.