Won't Let Go

www.crescentmoonpress.com

Won’t Let Go
Avery Olive

ISBN:
978-1-939173-67-6
E-ISBN: 978-1-939173-69-0

© Copyright Alisha Souillet 2013. All rights reserved

Cover Art: Taria Reed
Editor: Judy Roth
Layout/Typesetting: jimandzetta.com

Crescent Moon Press

1385 Highway 35

Box 269

Middletown, NJ 07748

Ebooks/Books are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Crescent Moon Press electronic publication/print publication: December 2013
www.crescentmoonpress.com

"When you find yourself stuck in the present, maybe it's because something in your past isn't ready to let you go."

Avery Olive

My eyes grow wide as a house comes into view at the top of the hill.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan from the passenger seat of my parents’ old man sedan.

“What? What is it, baby?” Mom takes a hand off the steering wheel and squeezes my knee.

“
This
is like a house from the Addams Family or something.” I motion towards the dark wooden structure standing tall with peaks and warped shingles. A balcony sags under rotting wood, and the wrap around veranda doesn’t wrap around anymore. There are chunks of board and railing missing, leaving gaps between the wood. Suddenly, the Monopoly houses we passed on the way here don’t look so...boring and sad.

Dad speaks up from the back seat, “It’s got a lot of character, this one does.”

Mom slows the car to a stop next to a shiny, clean red compact car, adding, “It just needs a little love, is all.”

Or to be bulldozed to the ground,
I think.

I stare up at the decrepit, spooky looking house. Right away I am annoyed, feeling cheated at the promise of a better life, better opportunities and an even nicer, bigger bedroom—if that’s even possible. Somehow, I don’t see how this dump, overrun with weeds and grass is better.

My mom’s voice rings inside my head. She’d promised a new beginning, a clean slate. Dad had to move across the country just to become an even better doctor, with an even better position within the hierarchy.

But this was also a chance for me to—how did she once put it — get back on the right track. As if my train had derailed and I had become a vision of myself I could no longer agree with. I know she’s right, though. I’ve made some mistakes, but who hasn’t? If I didn’t believe this was truly for Dad’s new job, I’d assume the move was to take me away from my friends so that my family and I could work on our strained relationship. Isn’t that what parents do these days? Uproot children when they become terrible delinquents, just to prove they’re still the boss?

Truth is, I liked my old beginning better. The one where I had the best friends and boyfriend in the world—who all thought a
long distance thing
—long being seventeen hours apart—wouldn’t work out.

I suppose it makes sense. We’ve only been friends for years, so of course we can’t keep in touch through e-mail and texts. Nimble fingers and stupid brains make it hard, I’m sure. Maybe things
are
better off this way.

My parents exit the car. Gravel crunches beneath their steps as they make their way up to the house. I sit in the passenger seat with my arms folded tightly across my chest, my jaw set and my lips in a firm line.

Mom turns around and motions for me to come, waving her hand and smiling as she puts a foot onto the first step. Just as I relent, sliding out of the passenger seat, a large
crunch
and
snap
fills the silent air. Mom grabs the railing for support as her foot pushes through the wooden step. Dad is at her side supporting her, in case the stairs give way completely and she falls right through. However, to my surprise they both start laughing. It’s as if the steps crumbling beneath them is the funniest thing in the world.

Not funny
.

It takes a few calming breaths before I’m able to try and embrace the changes that have happened in my life. But my feet feel heavy. Apparently they aren’t quite as willing as the rest of me to move forward—both towards the house and this new life. It doesn’t help that I could be putting my life in danger by falling through the steps, or worse, an entire floor. As my feet finally find the courage to move forward, the giant black front door creaks open.

A round, plump head pokes out. “I thought I heard a car and voices out here.” A man pushes the door the rest of the way open and takes what looks to me like a few calculated steps onto the veranda.

Mr. Realtor is wearing a crisp tan business suit, stark white shirt and a yellow tie. His body is just as round as his brown hair covered head. He’s short and the suit stretches across his bulging beer belly, buttons ready to pop off any second.

“Might want to watch your step. She’s sturdy in most places, but the veranda could use some supports.” He speaks to my parents, who are still chuckling at Mom’s brush with death. Mr. Realtor then extends his hand, as all the while I, at a snail’s pace, make my way closer to the death trap. “I’m Mr. Sanders. Glad to finally meet you Dr. Stone. Mrs. Stone,” he says, grasping Dad’s hand first, and then Mom’s.

“Please call me Charles,” Dad says.

“Right, sorry. Dr. Charles.”

“Just...Charles. No need for the Doctor. I’m not at work.” He smiles, touches Mom on the shoulder and adds, “This little thing here is Sylvia.” And with a nod over his shoulder in my direction he says, “And that’s Alexia.”

I give a curt nod and small smile. Stepping on the farthest point of the stair from the new hole, I grasp the railing. Just as my foot reaches the second step, something catches my eye.

Up towards the sky, I scan the house, glimpsing a grimy window. A sheer curtain rustles. Squinting against the bright light of the sun, I see the curtain move again. This time a shadow, tall and lean, passes over the space.

Instantly, cool air brushes my neck, hairs stand up on end and a creepy feeling tickles my spine. Shaking off the odd sensation, I look back to the window. The curtain hangs still and no shadow moves.
I imagined the whole thing. Nothing there at all.

“Well, nice to meet you all. Please, please come in and check out your new home.”

Mr. Realtor holds the door open as we shuffle into the foyer. I want to say I’m awed, but I’m not. From this point all I can see are neat piles of boxes with Mom’s messy scrawl on the sides. It’s really hard to get the full picture.

“The movers were here this morning. We tried to leave things organized. And missus also tidied up the kitchen and left a casserole in the fridge.” He pauses to wipe beads of sweat off his neck. “The rest of the house still needs a good once over.”

The house itself feels about ten degrees warmer than outside. My black T-shirt is already clinging to my dampened skin. I’m guessing central air is a luxury I no longer have. Add that to the growing list of reasons why I hate this new life already.

Only a second later I curse under my breath, knowing I promised myself and my mother I’d make the most of this new change. I can handle letting myself down, but her, on the other hand, not so much. I’ve sort of had my fill of that in the past. Letting her down, that is.

Mom gazes around. “Oh Charles, look at this place! Isn’t it wonderful?” Both her face and voice are giddy with excitement. Mom points out a huge stone fireplace, tall ceilings, saying something about how a little fresh paint will brighten up the room.

Speaking of...
“So where’s my room?” I ask, trying to hide the small amount of excitement bubbling beneath the surface.

“Oh honey. If the pictures do it justice, you’ll love it!” Mom smiles.

Mr. Realtor coughs, rubbing his neck again. “It’s up the stairs. End of the hall.”

Wasting no time, but still being vigilant, I race up the stairs and down the hall. If the rest of the house is any indication, the room will be a bit of a disappointment, but I cling to the hope that maybe I'm wrong. Grasping the crystal doorknob, I turn it and fling myself into my new room.

I gasp, hand flying to my mouth.

It’s not the drab sheers on the window, my four-poster bed leaning up against a wall, or the expanse of the room—filled with boxes—that’s caught my attention.

No. That would be simple. Easy
.

Instead I find myself staring at the back of a—person. It’s a
he
, tall and lean, wearing dark wash jeans and a gray T-shirt, and he’s standing right smack dab in the center of the space. His hair is short and sandy blond. Just as I’m about to speak, his head tilts to the right, and slowly, ever so slowly, he glances over his shoulder.

Stormy blue eyes narrow at me as a small grin plays on his lips.

Just when I think I’ve lost my mind—that a stranger in my house is bad enough—the person dissolves into a cloud of dust, swirling in the rays of sunlight brought in from the window until no trace is left.

I scream. A fierce and terrified, bone-chilling scream that echoes through the room. It’s so loud. The air in my lungs is still expelling when faintly I hear the thud of footfalls frantically running up the stairs towards me.

My parents and Mr. Realtor burst through the door.

But it’s Dad’s voice that booms above everything else. “What! What is it honey?” He twirls around, looking for a knife-toting killer.

Trembling, I stare blankly at the space where the person—the guy—just was. Mom places a comforting arm around my shoulder, forcing me to relax and slump against her. “I—I …” The words don’t come. I want to say I saw him, that a person was in my room, but the words are trapped in my throat. It’s as if when I speak them, I’ll just sound crazy. Because it is crazy, impossible, a trick of the light, I swear.

And then my mom says, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, baby. What’s got you so scared? You’re shaking like a leaf.”

A ghost. If only I could tell her that’s what I’m sure I really saw.

My voice croaks, “A-a spider. There was this huge black spider.”

“Well, a bug is no reason to scream to high heaven. That’s just crazy. I thought you were dying up here.” Dad’s voice is gruff. Serious. Then he lets out a breath and walks about the room, fingers running along the seams of the walls, checking inside the closet and along the windowsills. “We’ll get some insect killer or something.” He sighs again and smiles. “I don’t see any more big bad bugs. I’m sure you’re safe.” Then under his breath, he mutters, “A spider. Good God.”