Unholy Nights: A Twisted Christmas Anthology (31 page)

I stare down at the ice collecting under the front door’s metal threshold. I bite my lip and breathe in cold air.

“Come here, kitty, kitty,” I coax.

The neighbor’s porch light turns on. I hear the door unlock. Abruptly I close mine, before any new neighbor sees me, and rest against it.

“Traitor.” My whisper is directed at my cat that can’t hear it and apparently couldn’t care less if she could. I huddle under the covers and decide to make an early night of it. Sleep is the best remedy for an aching stomach. I’ll find a solution in the morning.

Problem is my sleep is fitful. I’m plagued with forest dreams. I used to like running in the woods beyond the cul-de-sac when I was a little girl, but now the forest makes me cringe with fear. In my dream those same trees find me, and one pulls me to her like an overprotective mother, her roots coiling around my body, piercing my sides, pressing into my ears and my eye sockets, and finally burrowing into my skull.

I awake several times, barely able to breathe. By two a.m. I know I will not get in another wink.

At the same time, the whimpers start—early. The sobs that corrupt into hideous laughter–the laugh of someone who has given up on sanity—reach me, even when I turn up the TV. And always some sense of morbid curiosity rouses me from my safe spot on the couch and pulls me toward the bathroom door where the sounds increase.

I press my hand to the painted wood. I watch mesmerized as my fingers quiver so quickly they seem a touch blurred, trembling with some inner dread I have no way or right to soothe.

The sobbing stops. A consoling murmur, deep to the point of masculine, answers. The cries start anew.

The door lets out a low squeak as I push it open. The room is dark. I flick on the light, wincing in case the bulb bursts again. It doesn’t. Instead I stare at the white shower curtain. Behind it, something dark moves.

Tentatively, I lift my hand toward the milky plastic. Behind the curtain, someone hiccups. Mindless, incoherent chattering follows, until I make out words.

...Please... Bury it in the back...

The words hit me hard. I whip open the curtain with such force two curtain holes pop free of their hooks. The mournful sounds stop. The bathtub is empty. My chest heaves with an anger I do not wish to endure. I curse out loud and sit on the edge of the tub.

I wait. Nothing happens. No voices return. I stare blindly at the tub, until I notice a yellowed trail that travels from the center of the tub to the drain.

I get my brush and bucket from the pantry and scrub down the tub. I scrub until my hands are red and raw.

*

W
hen I awake, laughter draws me to the dining room window. A thick fog blends with the snowy ground, forming a sheet of white and grays that curve around our street’s houses.

Across the street, Christmas lights lay every which way, abandoned on snow. Giggles erupt behind Mercy’s house. From the winter fog, three women emerge and run out to the front sidewalk, throwing snowballs at each other. A woman with long red curls runs into the undeveloped end of the cul-de-sac where the fog enfolds her once again. The brunette throws a snowball into the swirling white mist. The blonde grabs her elbow and tugs her, chasing the first into the fog.

Must be nice to be so carefree. I turn away to look for something to do.

Five minutes later someone is pounding at the front door.

Gabe stands with a large evergreen wreath in his arms. “We have an extra,” he explains. The top of the wreath has a huge red bow that looks like a clown’s bowtie tucked under Gabe’s sexy cleft chin. The image is a total contradiction to his rugged good looks. I want to yank the wreath away from him before it breaks his seductive spell on me.

I step to the side to let him in instead, covering my mouth with the back of my hand to hide my smile.

I catch a delicious whiff of crisp morning air and incense—cranberry this time, which combines with the evergreen scent, and makes me almost sad I wouldn’t be celebrating Christmas. It never really bothered me before.

“How about we hang it above the mantle?” Gabe offers.

“I’ll get the stepstool.” I nearly skip to the kitchen. Although Gabe is tall, the mantle is huge.

When I return to the living room, Gabe is humming “What Child Is This” and brushing the dust off of the painting, which he’s already leaned against the hearth.

“How did you...?”

He grins and takes the stepstool from me. “Long arms, I guess.”

I laugh. It’s awkward, almost a hoarse bark. He doesn’t flinch from the ugly sound, and my heart melts a little more because of this.

He places the wreath and follows my directions until the bow is perfectly placed in the center. Then he hops down to the ground, landing so close to me, his thighs nearly touch mine. Instinctively, I step away but he grasps my elbow and pulls me back.

His arms encircle my waist and draw me even closer, pressing me against his chest. My heart nearly stops; I’m taken by surprise. His body is so warm and comforting.

His hand lifts to cup my cheek, then moves to hold my chin between his thumb and forefinger. The breath deep inside me quivers out as my pulse speeds up.

His lips brush against mine. I feel something leave me, I don’t know what it is exactly, but my body feels lighter. He lifts his head and the heaviness of the world returns.

“What was that for?” I blurt out.

He tilts his head to the side. “Your lips are very kissable. I wanted to taste them.”

“Oh.”

That’s all I can say?
Oh?

He steps to the side but keeps his arm around my waist, drawing me close. It feels good and yet scary, too. I want to step away but his arm tightens around me. I wince. He immediately breaks contact with me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his golden eyes gleam with worry and a touch of skepticism.

“Nothing,” I dismiss. “Just a stitch in my side.” The truth is my side has been burning since last night, after Pixie left.

“So, will you give me the grand tour?” he asks.

I shrug. “Sure.”

I point toward the large table. “Dining room. Stairs.” Which my father tumbled down, taking me with him.

“There’s the kitchen. And you’ve met the hearth already.” Where my father burned my college re-acceptance and scholarship letters.

“And there’s the bathroom.” Where I had my miscarriage.

My stomach twists so tight I find I’m bending over before I can stop. I gasp out loud as the pain becomes red hot.

“Are you okay?” Gabe touches my shoulder and bends down.

“Yeah,” I say. It comes and goes. Hunger pains. These were probably the worst so far.

“Let me see.”

I brush his hands away, suddenly irritated. “I said I’m fine.”

“Kathryn, you’re not,” his voice turns stern, like he’s known me forever and I’ve frustrated him.

But he hasn’t known me forever. I don’t know him at all, certainly not enough for him to kiss me like he already did or lift my sweater like he wanted to do now.

“Don’t you have somewhere to go?” I press angrily. “Something to do with your harem?”

“Coven,” he corrects.

I straighten, an incredulous laugh coming out of me like a bark of disbelief. But his gaze is level, his expression sober. He was serious.

And again all I can say is, “Oh.”

I don’t brush his hands away as he lifts up my sweater and touches my side. It burns immediately. I look down. Three red slashes mar my skin.

“Pixie,” I answer absently but remember my cat had hot trotted it over to Gabe’s house before the pain started.

Gabe shakes his head. “No. These scratches are too far apart.”

I keep silent because there is nothing to say. He presses his hand to my side. The warmth of his skin spreads over mine, and again I feel the absence of something. I feel a healing peace.

“How do you do that?” I ask.

Gabe looks at me and the stern expression on his face softens. “I like to make people feel better. Do you?”

I nod. His hand lifts away.

Gabe gently tugs my sweater down. “Here,” he steps around to face me and presses his hands against my chest, above my breasts but below my collarbone. He closes his eyes, his thick black eyelashes feathering his cheeks.

I stare. How can someone be so handsome, even with his gorgeous eyes closed?

“Breathe,” he orders.

I breathe and stare.

He opens his eyes and I blink. He steps back, shaking out his hands like he’s soaking wet and missing a hand towel. After a moment, he grasps the back of his neck and rubs it. “You carry a lot of tension.”

No kidding. “Thanks for that jolly bit of news,” I retort.

“Speaking of jolly, I hope you’re planning for a bigger tree than that one.” With a look of distaste, he points to Mercy’s evergreen bonsai. “A house like this needs something tall.”

Yeah, or someone tall...

“I wasn’t planning to decorate,” I admit.

“Why not?”

“All my decorations are upstairs. I don’t go up there.”

“Ah-ha,” Gabe exclaims like he’s discovered the answer to some great mystery. “So that’s where you keep the dust bunnies.”

“Glad it amuses you.”

“I hope you reconsider, now that you have such a nice wreath up. It shouldn’t just hang there all alone.” His gaze travels over me. Where his amber eyes move my skin flushes with heat.

His hands disappear inside his jacket pockets and he heads for the front door. A sigh escapes me, an equal mix of relief and disappointment. At the door he turns around. “I nearly forgot,” he says and pulls from his coat pocket a simple cellphone. He hands it to me. “Here.”

“I can’t accept this,” I answer in surprise.

“Of course you can. My mom gave it to me awhile back. It’s prepaid, phone and text. I never use it and it shouldn't go to waste.”

“I couldn't,” I repeat, weaker this time.

“Keep it in case of an emergency.” He shrugged. “Think of it as an early Christmas present.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, my eyes riveted to the object no bigger than my palm—a connection to the outside world. My vision blurs and I feel light-headed.

Gabe waits for a minute, with his hands in his pockets. Dazed, I look up at him. Seeing my expression, his face loses its eager energy and turns a touch grim. He leaves me with a curt nod.

I look at my new phone. The screen shows it is on and fully charged. Coiled around the phone is a charging cord and small outlet plug. I’m grateful for this because I do not want Gabe to know I own no computer or any electronics besides the TV, really.

I wander back to the dining room and place the phone on the polished wood table. An early Christmas gift? But what can I give in return? I wrack my brain thinking of things until I recall the first night when I saw him. None of my new neighbors have scarves. That’s something I can make!

I hug my middle happily and hum “What Child Is This” to myself, suddenly feeling the Christmas spirit. I waltz about around the dining room and sing the verses, until I come to the end of the song. The dining room armoire faces me. Its glass doors are slightly ajar. Inside the armoire, all the wine glasses are right-side up, the bulbs open to welcome dust.

As soon as I notice this change, I dismiss it, thinking how lazy I am not to arrange them correctly and how unpredictable I am to always rearrange things and then forget. I say these things to myself, until I forget details of what exactly it is that I have seen. This is the only way, really. The truth, the things that I cannot even face, will never do anyone any good if remembered.

*

B
y the next morning, I’ve crocheted Gabe’s scarf. It’s nothing elaborate, just navy and baby blue stripes. I eat the rest of the saltines and nap in the chair, my feet propped up on the ottoman. Pixie nibbles on the tuna in the kitchen, her tastes more fussy since Molly’s arrival and her nightly saucer of warm milk.

When I hear a knock at the door, I know it’s Gabe. I stuff his scarf under the couch cushions and open the door. He’s standing there with a crockpot.

Taken aback, I frown and wrinkle my nose. Then the most mouthwatering smell reaches me.

“It’s pot roast,” Gabe says proudly handing it over to me. “Beef, carrots, tomatoes, onions, and potatoes.”

“But why?” I ask and receive a hard stare from him. I wish to take the question back, realizing how ungrateful I sound.

“Because you’re skin and bones,” he nearly barks. “I touched you, remember?” With an angry snort he scratches the back of his neck. “Was nearly like touching a skeleton.”

I bristle. “Sorry if my body disgusts you.”

He gapes, his face flushing, but he shakes his head. “Don’t give me that, Kathryn. You know what I mean. Sandy cooked all morning, so eat it.”

He turns and clears the steps before I can offer a protest, not that I will. The roast smells better than anything I’ve ever eaten in my life—I’m positive about that. In fact, so positive, I race to the kitchen, pluck a bowl from the cupboard and fill it with steaming food. Pixie is at my heels, rubbing and mewling. I drop a piece on the linoleum for her. I don’t even make it to the dining room but devour the entire bowl at the counter, hunching over the bowl until it is empty. Done, I turn around and rest my back against the counter edge. I lean back and lick my lips. I’m in Heaven.

An hour later, I pay for it. Now with head bent over the toilet, I throw up. I over did it and chastise myself for not thinking. My stomach is far too small to take so much rich food in one sitting. Vowing to be smarter next time, I head to the couch and start working on the second scarf.

I’m on the fourth row, when I hear a strange chirping. It takes me a few moments before I realize it’s the phone Gabe gave me. I look down at it on the end table and I don’t pick it up. Talking on the phone is distasteful to me. A minute later, the screen flashes to life.

I pick up the phone and read a text.

“You there?”
It’s Gabe obviously.

“Yes.”
I message back.

“Why didn’t you answer?”

“Don’t like phones really.”

There is a pause. I reach for my crochet hook. The screen lights up again.