Unholy Nights: A Twisted Christmas Anthology (30 page)

But I did try to earn love, or at least to keep from being cast out. Sometimes I wonder why I tried so hard. Sometimes Mercy helped me, more so after her husband left her. But I guess she never thought to take me in, never thought of me as a daughter but as a friend. Every day after school, I rushed home to get supper ready. I kept the house clean. My grades weren’t perfect but the best I could do.

My reward was my father’s thin-lipped smile behind which I imagined was a spring coiling tighter and tighter with each passing day. When I did anything wrong, any clumsy act like spilling my father’s coffee or breaking a dish, I imagined that spring coiling ever tighter—ready to snap at any moment.

It could have been my imagination, some psychological fear of abandonment, for my father never gave any outward indication of a building anger, never barked or cursed at me. But I sensed it in his silence, how he never called me by name, how he never really spoke except after dinner when we sat at the table and said the rosary together. His hidden wrath was something that I sensed. Keenly. Eventually my senses proved true when I finally unleashed his anger with my one mistake. And it was that one mistake—my one big “sin”—that ultimately led to his death.

Ironically I earned an inheritance, what was left of his life insurance, and this house that was never, ever a home.

I stand in the living room, realizing little has changed in the rustic-themed ranch house since my father’s death, except for his urn on the fireplace mantle, placed there by Mercy.

“Here, Katie?” Mercy had asked impatiently, a lit cigarette dangling from her lower lip. She moved the large green urn to the right on the mantle. “Better?”

“That’s fine,” I answered and sat on the couch, my limbs unnaturally heavy.

She scowled down at me from the step stool. “Should just throw it in the hearth,” she said. “Or put him to good use. Use him for Pixie’s cat litter.”

“Mercy,” I shook my head sadly.

She opened the urn’s lid and flicked her ashes into it.

“Mercy!”

“The bastard’s good and dead,” she spat and hopped down from the stool. “Why show me a face like that? We both know what he did.”

I had to look away, and so, stared at my hands in my lap. I shrugged. “I don’t know. He never sent me away.”

He’d kept me, after my mother and brother left us. What happened afterward had been mostly my fault.

“Well. Fine,” Mercy huffed. She sat down next to me and covered my hands with hers. “If that urn’s gone when I get back, I wouldn’t blame you one bit, Katie.”

“The time flies so quickly.” I breathed in deeply, then sighed. “You going to Vermont already?”

“Yeah,” she hesitated. Squeezed my fingers. “A little longer this time.”

I swallowed hard. “How long?”

“Four months.”

“Four?”

“I’ll be home by Thanksgiving,” Mercy promised. She touched my cheek. “Time enough for you to get back into the real world.”

But I hadn’t returned to the “real world.” And she knew I couldn’t step foot outside my father’s house without her.

The pathetic buzz of our broken doorbell jolts me out of my memory. A moment later a heavy fist pounds against the door. I stand still in the middle of the living room, holding my breath. Then a muffled meow comes from beyond the door. Hope rushes over me as I dash toward the sound. I slide the door bolt to the right, then undo the second lock, and the one on the doorknob. The door frame’s paint cracks in protest, then gives as I tug the door open.

Winter light fills the entranceway. Beyond, the most beautiful golden brown eyes I have ever seen look back at me. I stare, speechless, transfixed by those warm yet penetrating eyes. The new guy in Mercy’s home acknowledges my reaction with a soft smile, like he’s used to women gawking. I blush, remembering my evening fantasy. Hopefully, he thinks my red cheeks are from the cold air.

“This yours?” From inside his leather jacket, a calico head pops out. A pleased yawn stretches her face, showcasing her fangs before she rubs up against the man’s neck and cheek. A morning beard peppers his jawline and cleft chin, catching bits of her fur as she snuggles.

“Pixie,” I breathe in belated relief. “Thank you.”

Long fingers stroke between her ears, then under her chin. My calico jumps from my new neighbor’s arms to the floor and trots toward the kitchen, leaving me alone with the man.

We look at each other in awkward silence. Behind me, claws scratch at the kitchen linoleum. I left out the tuna from yesterday. My cat makes obvious her opinion of old chow.

He hears it, too. A grin splits the man’s face, revealing dimples to go with the one on his chin. Something inside me flutters and I press my hand to my stomach.

He stuffs his hands into his jacket’s pockets and looks to the side, turning as if to go. My stomach tightens and I open the door wider. “Come in.”

The words are out before I can stop them. Instantly worries plague me. What was I thinking? I don’t know this man.

“Pixie. That’s a great name,” he says as he walks into the house. “Molly fixed her up a saucer of milk last night and this morning. I hope you don’t mind.”

I shrug. “Not at all.”

He extends those long fingers toward me. “I’m Gabe. Just moved in.”

I take his hand. His palm instantly warms mine.

“Katie Crowe. Nice to meet you.” In jeans and an old sweatshirt, I’m hardly dressed for an introduction. My face grows hotter with embarrassment.

Gabe stays just inside the small entranceway. His gorgeous eyes scan the living room and dining room; a hint of distaste mars his pleasant features. “Interesting.” A soft shudder further reveals his opinion of my father’s mounted trophies.

“You’re not a hunter?”

“Bow. Up north.” He tilts his head to the side, his gaze thoughtful. “But you live here all by yourself, Kathryn?”

I suck in my breath, unsure how to answer him. A thousand worries and warnings now clamor in my ear. He’s getting too personal. Find a way to make him leave.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Sorry about Pixie. I would have called you, but I didn’t have a number.” He lifts a phone from his leather jacket.

I shake my head. “I don’t have a phone.” Dummy, I inwardly berate myself as his eyebrows lift. There’s an old cord phone clearly visible on the living room end table beside the couch. “Not one that works,” I add.

“Seriously? Not even for emergencies?” He obviously thinks this is foolish. Almost as foolish as letting a stranger into my house.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with it, but it doesn’t work properly.”

“I can look at it when you get back from your holiday travel.”

“What? I’m not—” I cut myself off, amazed at how easily Gabe is coaxing information out of me. But he nudges his head, indicating he’s seen the duffle bag near the fireplace.

My father’s old army duffle. I keep my clothes in it so I don’t have to go upstairs. “I just put my stuff in there...” My voice fades and I offer a weak shrug. I wrestle with two conflicting needs; one the need for him to leave me in peace—safe from his inquisition, the other the exact opposite.

“I understand,” he assures. “In case you need to ship out on a moment’s notice.”

He has no clue. Far from it. One wrong guess makes me simper, like it’s some sort of victory.

He scratches the back of his head where his hair is clipped close to his neck, and I begin to make my own assessments of him. Maybe he was once in the army, had “shipped out” at some point. I assess his large frame, the curve of his muscles pressed against his jeans and jacket, and his wide stance that suggests a soldier at ease. I try to be the inquisitor and not the fawning girl. I’m not sure I’m succeeding.

“So you live with three women?” I want him to know he’s not the only neighbor that can snoop.

“Yeah. Molly, Sandy and Raven. They’d love to meet you,” he says, not missing a beat. “You should come over. We’ll throw the yule log on.”

“Maybe.”

He nods, shoves his hands back into his pockets and goes for the door. “Well, if you need anything or like playing video games, hop over if you’re bored. Raven is wicked with first person shooters. Sandy’s skills are sick.”

I follow him to the door. “I’m more of a reader, actually.”

“Ah. Funny. Molly guessed you were more of a visual girl.” He opens the door, but leans against it. “You like to watch.” His hand is clasping the door’s edge above his head, his body towering over me. A slow grin forms on his face like he’s just enjoyed a secret joke. “They’re not exclusive.”

“What do you mean?” I swallow hard, feeling the heat of his body touching me.

“You can have both—read
and
play. Watch
and
partake. Not exclusive.” His eyes hold me in place. “And neither are we.”

Gabe leaves. I close the door and rest against it, my limbs like jelly and lead, all at the same time. I go over in my head what he said, and I think I know what he meant but cannot believe it. If it’s what I think he means, that means the vision wasn’t just in my head. But then...what did
that
mean? Not exclusive?

Ridiculous. I snort, self-damningly. This seclusion has rendered me a lunatic, reducing me to chatting with a cat, hearing voices, and conjuring a magic man.

Sure. I’m just what Gabe needs— a nutjob to spice up his harem, a girl for each arm and leg. I snicker but inside I feel something I cannot hide, a yearning—a wish, that I could follow him.

“Stupid,” I chastise myself out loud and head for the pantry, passing the places where he stood, breathing in the lingering scent made obvious by the everyday, unchanging smells that have become my life. He left behind fresh winter air and something that hinted of blueberry incense. I breathe in so deeply that my nostrils flare.

“Stupid,” I mutter. Pixie meows in agreement.

She follows me into the pantry and rubs against my ankles as I flick on the light and look at the shiny white shelves. Maybe if I stare long enough, food will miraculously appear. But no such luck. I have a choice between the three cans of tuna and one can of black beans. Half a pack of saltines sits open on the middle shelf. I grab a can of tuna and the beans. The saltines can wait until dinner. I guestimate I have about two days left of food—three, tops.

Cradling the cans in my arm, I try to pull open the door but it doesn’t budge. I frown and try again. Huh. It shouldn’t stick. Where the weather outside was humid with melting snow, the house was as dry as desert. I set down the cans; one roles under the shelf. Grasping the doorknob I lean way back, then press my foot against the frame.

“Damn it!”

I really tug with all my power and the pantry door swings open without resistance, hitting me squarely in the nose. Blood spurts out of my nostrils and hits the pantry door. Big red gobs drip down like wax on a Halloween candle. Seriously, the blood splatter looks like something from a butcher shop.

“Christ,” I gasp.

Low rumbles come from the ceiling. I tilt my head up and pinch the bridge of my nose. It sounds as though something is being dragged across the upstairs floor. The sound grows to rolls of thunder, muffled at first, but as it nears me the noise transforms into something metallic, like metal scraping against stone. I’d cover my ears if not for the fact my nose will surely make more blood art all over the pantry. I wince and hold my breath against the pain as the scraping stretches into a piercing shriek. Then utter silence follows.

I swallow blood. The silence continues, two seconds...three...

A jarring crash above quakes the entire house, making the walls shudder. Pixie hisses and squeezes into the farthest corner from the door. Her whiskers disappear behind the low shelf.

“It’s just melting snow,” I tell her but my voice is trembling. She refuses to budge and I’m not about to add claw marks to my growing list of injuries. After living half my entire life with snow falling from the roof, I know what it sounds like, I reason.

I decide to leave the pantry door permanently open. After retrieving the cans, I set them on the counter, then wipe down the utter grossness on the pantry door.

The refrigerator takes up space; there’s nothing in it, and I’m past the habit of checking it. The freezer, however, has ice. I load up a glass and fill it with tap water. Water always tastes better with ice. I press the cold glass to my tissue-stuffed nose.

Pixie finally comes when I ration out the tuna between us. I heat up the beans that always taste better with sugar, onions and jalapeños. Unfortunately, that combination of common girl’s culinary bliss just isn’t going to happen today.

I grab my beans, leave the cat, and go to the dining room table. I look at the upside down wineglasses in the dining armoire and wonder when the last time was that I had enjoyed wine. With a wistful sigh, I sit. Things have to change.

I need food. I go over my options from the impossible to the less likely to the maybe faceable. I whittle down to two options: either I call a taxi driver willing to shop for me or I call a local parish that works with hungry recluses...

My gaze strays to the boxy phone. My teeth press the blood out of my lips as I stare at the wall jack and the unplugged cord just below it.

Fine. I get to my feet, stride over to the phone, and plug it in.

It rings almost immediately. I grab both my elbows with my hands and eye the phone warily. It rings, a shrilly mind screwing sound that sets all my nerves on edge.

With a curse, I grab the handle and lift it to my ear.

“Hello?” I prompt.

The receiver sizzles and pops. It’s an analog line and shows it. I barely make out an inhale and exhale of someone on the other end.

“Hello?” I repeat. The line goes dead.

I slam the receiver against the cradle. I free the line cord from the wall with a harsh yank. Screw it. I’ll make due for another day or two. Somehow.

CHAPTER TWO

The fact I am starving makes Pixie’s pacing all the more irritating. I let her out at eight in the evening, when I can stand no more of her persistent yowling. She burns a trail straight to Mercy’s old house and scratches on the door.

“Pixie,” I hiss. She doesn’t even bother to look back at me.