Nightingale's Nightmare (Cassadaga Book 4 (11 page)

“You should have eaten something, Jorie.”

“I’m not hungry anymore,” she said, tears entering into her voice. “It’s gone. No hunger. Just gone. Everything’s gone.”

“Jorie, have you seen a doctor since Joe died?”

“He didn’t die. He was murdeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrred,” she wailed.

“Okay, calm down. Maybe you should consider paying a visit to the doctor.”

“What good would that do?”

“Maybe he could give you a prescription for a tranquilizer. Xanax, or something.”

Jorie pushed her lips toward the windshield. She remained with a puckered expression on her face until Zach approached her house.

“Okay, here we are, home. I’ll help you inside.”

Zach ran around to the other side of the car and opened the door. Jorie smiled up into Zach’s face, a simpering expression. He found he had to hold onto her arm to keep her steady as she walked. Zach unlocked the door and assisted Jorie inside.

“Zach, would you like a drink?” she asked as she stood weaving in the middle of the living room. “I’m having one.”

“No, I don’t need one and I don’t think you should have one, either.”

Jorie puckered her lips and wagged her finger at him like he was a naughty boy. “Oh, come on, just one. It tastes so good.”

“No.” He started to say more as she turned toward the bar cart. A host of liquors stood at the ready on the glass, roll around cart. “Jorie, no,” he said, taking her by the arms.

She turned around and spread her arms across his b
arrel chest, nestling her cheek into his body. There was a half-smile, a contented smile, etched on her face as her eyes closed.

Zach wasn’t sure what to do with her. He edged away from the cart
, pulling her along. Jorie’s body was quite pliable, so she followed easily until he got her to the couch.

Zach and Jorie
fell back onto the couch. She wrapped her hand around his big paw as it rested on his thigh. There they sat until she fell asleep, her head falling into his lap.

~~

Sheila and Alex walked away from the hall together.

“That will go down as one of the more interesting community dinner
s we’ve had,” Alex said.

“I especially liked the expression on Poppy’s face when Jorie grabbed Stephano’s butt,” Sheila remarked.

“Yes, that was a good one, Alex said, smiling. “Lucky she didn’t grab for his privates.”

Sheila cracked up.

“She’s not handling Joe’s death well. I wonder if she’s taking anything, like Xanax?” Alex said.

“It doesn’t look that way, unless she’s drinking on top of the medication.”

“Maybe we need to find out so we can help her.”

“It would be a nice gesture if you did that,” Sheila suggested. “You know, considering.”

“Considering what? That I had a motive to kill her husband?”

“I’m just saying, people talk, think strange things…”

Alex stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Do you think I killed Joe? So I could get onto the board?” She gave Sheila an incredulous look. “I mean, really?”

“No, I don’t think that. Of course not.”

“Murder over a board position? Isn’t that just a bit over the top?” Alex flung her hands into the air for emphasis.

“Of course
it’s over the top. Alex, just let it go. I don’t believe that about you.”

“But others do.”

“Well, yes, some do.”

“Fine. I’ll make nice to Jorie.”

“But, Alex…”

“No butts. Maybe it will improve my reputation.
God knows everything here is always about appearances.”

Sheila just sighed. “Whatever.”
 

~~

“How was the dinner?” Peter was sitting on the couch. He dropped the book covering his face, exposing a nice looking teenager with sandy hair. His ankles were crossed over the table in front of him, a can of soda resting on a coaster beside.

“Good. I ate too much.” Sheila plopped down in a comfy chair across from Peter. “I’m glad I have tomorrow off. I feel like sleeping in late.”

“I’ll be quiet. I have a lot to study this weekend.”

“What about your writing project?”

“Hmm, I’m waiting for inspiration to strike.” Peter looked at his mother with a serious expression. “I have ideas, but nothing is jelling. The history lesson I just have to read and retain. That’s easier.” He lifted the book briefly to indicate that was the text he was holding.

“Don’t wait too long for inspiration. Start writing something and maybe it will build.”

Peter didn’t comment.

“Everything else okay at school?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“
Good. I’m going up to bed, Peter. Maybe watch some TV for a while.”

“’
Nite.”

Sheila kissed Peter on the cheek before she left the room.

Sixteen

It was dark where she walked, stepping lightly, carefully around objects she could only feel were present.  Reaching out her arms, Nightingale felt along for anything familiar to the touch. All she felt were wet, clammy walls, as if the surface were perspiring. The back of her neck was cold and chilled as she inched along, hoping to find some light.

Laughter filled her
ears, the kind one would expect to hear at a haunted house, deep and resonate. Where was she?  Nothing was familiar. An odor crept into her nostrils, both sour and pungent. It made her head reel with overwhelming distaste. Nightingale coughed to release the discomfort.

Then she heard it. Footsteps. They came from behind  and were moving at a fast pace. Closer they came, rapidly closing the distance between her and she knew not what. Nightingale’s heart
drummed a jazzy beat of fear and her throat closed with tension, as if that would keep ‘it’ away. But what was
it
? She began to run, bashing her shins and toes into  unseen objects, thrusting her head against hard surfaces that made her ache. Nightingale knew she was bleeding, she could feel the droplets slithering into her eyes and running down her cheeks.

Calling out in a voice that seemed to be impeded, Nightingale gasped for air in between shouts for help. Whatever it was, ‘it’ was upon her now. She felt as if a cloth bag had been cast over her body, limiting her
movement, stopping her flight. She was trapped inside something that cut off her oxygen supply. Nightingale’s breaths were labored, seeking, and finally, there was nothing to breath but fire. 

Heat inflamed her nostrils and throat, and then her lungs. Every in breath brought sensations of flames licking, tasting. Nightingale realized she couldn’t survive for but a few seconds more. The pain was excruciating, the fear overwhelming. What had she ever done to deserve this?

Nightingale felt her body collapse to the ground in one swift movement. Now her brain felt as if it were on fire, too. Sparks flew about inside her head, igniting various areas. It felt as if her brain were burning from the inside, attempting to forge a path outward to her hair. Popping sounds were heard and the squeaky whistles of balloons burning. Finally, Nightingale’s head exploded.

Ka-
plowie!!

Nightingale sat up in bed, flailing her arms to escape from the covers on top. Shaking from top to toe, she tried to catch her breath. She heaved deeply, straining for air. Wiping her long, red hair out of her eyes and back from her face, she trembled from the memory of the dream.

That had not been any ordinary dream. That was a full-blown nightmare, complete with all the bells and whistles. Nightingale felt like she wanted to get out of bed and run, run from whatever had been chasing her. But she knew that was silly, yet, the nightmare had felt so real, like she should keep running. Running away from…she wasn’t even sure what that would be.
Just something.

And h
er brain had exploded! It had felt like pieces had been shattered from within and regurgitated outward. The pain was a close memory. Nightingale didn’t know if she wanted to get out of bed or pull the covers back over her head to hide from the terror. However, the fear of having another dream propelled her out of bed.

Chewy rubbed up against Nightingale as she made her way to the bathroom. “Okay, enough. Let mommy walk.”

After performing her normal morning duties, Nightingale went to the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee. Thank goodness for the auto timer. Some mornings one needed coffee instantly. Sinking into a chair in the living room, Nightingale looked out at the front yard.

The only thing
she saw in the front yard now was one large oak, surrounded by a lot of grass. The plan had worked. She always knew it would.

“The black cat is gone, Chewy.”

The snowball of fur purred her agreement as she rubbed up into Nightingale’s face.

“Gone. And good riddance.”

The house felt lighter, as well, despite the nightmare, and Nightingale had not had a repeat of the head pain that had sent her to the hospital.

The curse had been lifted.

It
would feel good to leave the house and not have to be concerned with that cat eyeing her as she passed the area where the little beast had rooted itself.

Nightingale dressed for the day, deciding to walk to the post office for her mail.
As she passed the apartments, Latisha came bouncing down the stairs in front.

“Hey, girl, going to the post office?”

“Yes, I am.”

“
I’ll walk with you.” Latisha fell into step beside Nightingale. “Ever wonder why we don’t have home delivery and have to go pick up our mail?”

“I guess they think we’re such a small community, it’s not a problem. Besides, the post office is
over one hundred years old. It’s historic now, so we don’t want to lose it.”

“Yeah,
I understand folks like to receive mail with a Cassadaga post mark,” Latisha acknowledged.

“And we get to meet our neighbors frequently here
at the post office,” Nightingale said with a smile.

Latisha appeared quite cheery as they walked. “Did you hear what happened at church?”

“No, what happened?”

“You know I was singing on Sunday?”

“Yes, you had said.”

“Well, I came walking into the church, like always. Margarite was going
down the aisle to play the organ. So I go down the aisle toward the platform, and what do you think I see ahead of me?”

Nightingale shook her head. “
Margarite?”

“
Yes. Miss Margarite walking down the aisle with her dress half unzipped!”

Nightingale stopped walking. “Her dress was unzipped?”

“Yeah! All kinds of stuff was hanging out; flesh, fat, bra showing and her slip hem caught up in the zipper.” Latisha shook her head sideways. “It was a sight.”

“What did you do?”

“I tried to catch up with her, but the little rabbit made it to the platform and sat down with her back to the audience before I could do anything.”

“Oh, geez.” Nightingale felt mortified for Margarite.

“So I get up to the organ and whisper to her to follow me to the side. I pulled her together and zipped her up real quick.”

“She must have been very grateful to you.”

“I don’t know if she realized what was happening. She smelled like bourbon.”

“Oh, geez. Not good.” Nightingale winced.

“The people there who weren’t horrified by the spectacle thought it was funny,” Latisha relayed.

“Yeah, well.” Nightingale felt bad for Margarite.
Zach might have to fire her after that incident.

“Life is never dull in Cassadaga.” Latisha opened the door for Nightingale.

“That’s for sure.”

Nightingale’s hand brushed by Latisha
’s body as she passed. Vivid white stars engraved into the ebony handle of a knife flashed into her mind. There was a drop of blood balancing on the very tip of the blade. Turning her head quickly, she looked up into Latisha’s face.

“What’s the matter?”

Nightingale stared at Latisha, receiving more impressions the longer she looked at her. She saw Latisha’s hand put the star engraved knife into a purse, a big black purse that was stored in a closet somewhere.

Reverting her eyes away from Latisha, Nightingale pulled out her key to unlock her box. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You looked peculiar just then, kinda glazed.”

“I had a bad dream last night,” she answered, drawing the mail out from the box.
“Probably the reason.” 

Nightingale started toward the door, then stopped
, compelled to ask the question. “Latisha, do you own a knife?”

“A knife?
I have kitchen knives.”

“Not that kind of a knife. A fancy knife.”

“What would I be doing with that kind of knife?”