Chapter 7 – Isabella
T he slim bottle of white rum was empty. It had been a container I’d nursed for the last three weeks, having pilfered it at a small famiglia event. The bottle was tiny enough to hide in the secret compartment in my nightstand along with the handgun my father gave me. I’d drank the last finger of it right before curling under the covers to read a particularly spicy tale about a girl named Cara and the masked predator who haunted her during Halloween.
The dark romance novella kept me up past my bedtime with only the forbidden cocktail to keep me company.
But just because I finished the last of the rum did not mean I was toasted and imagining things.
I was wide awake now, having slept for probably forty minutes at the most. The cotton feeling on my tongue told me I probably had snored. Which was beyond humiliating.
Because I hadn’t been alone.
There was a spectre, a ghost, in my room. Or better yet, the essence of one. Glaring into the dark, I couldn’t pinpoint the monster’s pulse. There wasn’t a prickle against my skin that warned me of his presence. Just because I couldn’t now sense him, didn’t mean he hadn’t been here. Every few nights, there’d been a nocturnal visit. All I had to do was jump out of bed, pad across the plush carpet, and discover the evidence of his intrusion.
What did you leave me this time, phantom?
No, he definitely wasn’t here any longer.
Gathering every drop of courage, I threw back the protective layer of covers and leapt from the bed. There was nothing on the antique side table by my reading chair, so I swiveled and headed to my writing desk, a white, distressed piece that I’d repainted myself as a senior in high school. The other girls were out partying, and I was at home, stripping old layers, sanding smooth the age, and creating a new-old look like the strange little freak I was.
The large calendar that doubled as a blotting pad, the sunflower-painted mason jar for the pencils and pens, and the gold wire rack that organized the jumble of papers were as I’d left them. But I learned a few nights ago that I had to look for the small offerings the shadow was leaving me.
Sure enough, in the top right drawer, bound in soft velvet ribbon, was an unlined journal, one of those trendy Insta cameras in a bright purple pouch, and a package of junk journal décor. It was by far the most extravagant gift the mysterious force left.
“What in the hell!” I hissed, flicking on the small, lacy lamp.
One of the scrapbook pieces was out of the package, and there was a scribbled note on its face. The pen strokes looked…pained. They were scratches, like a child’s, all in caps and shaky.
Why would the spectre disguise their penmanship? It wasn’t like I would recognize the person by the way they wrote.
“Unless…I would?” I shook my head. No, I could tell my mama’s handwriting, and that was it. Hers had been elegant, a flowing script. Everything she did was a thing of beauty.
Sighing, I pushed away her memory. I didn’t need that haunting me too.
Holding the slip of paper under the light, I read the words.
And then read them again.
“‘For your travels,’” I whispered. “Where the hell am I going, you nutcase?”
A scrapbook. A freaking travel scrapbook! I moved to tear the paper in half, but my muscles squeezed in protest. A long inhale filled my lungs as my eyes squeezed shut.
My door clicked.
Rounding on the thick piece of wood, I glared at the barrier. While my heart beat wildly in my throat, I couldn’t muster enough fear to stay put. There was some wackadoodle who snuck into my room, almost nightly at this point, and left me trinkets.
The fact that they were the most thoughtful, perfect gifts imaginable was beside the point. I would not warm to whatever twisted intentions the intruder had, just because they knew my favorite flavor of saltwater taffy and brought the package from Atlantic City, which was right down the road.
I stalked to the door and flung it open.
Only, right as the handle was about to slam into the wall did I catch it and remind myself to be quiet. It was the middle of the night, but that didn’t mean the intruder and I were the only ones prowling about. Softly closing the door behind me, I took off down the back staircase.
There was not a drop of fear in my veins. I reasoned that if the apparition wanted to hurt me, it would have. There’d been ample opportunity. It was not good logic. Did I know how stupid it was to chase the shadow through the darkness? Absolutely. But here I was.
Mad. Angry. Past my freaking breaking point and ready to scream!
The spectre seemed just as good an outlet as any on which to unleash my frustration.
As with the first night, I chased the presence from the house, the doors that marked its path were open. I darted onto the side patio on the southwest side of the house. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the backyard. It spilled through the trees, dappling the ground in a web of light and shadow. The tall oaks, maples, and poplars loomed over me like silent sentinels, their twisted branches forming ghostly fingers that reached down toward the earth. They dared me to advance into their domain.
A chill trickled down my spine.
The spectre was here.
Eager to intercept my target, I hurried forward. Yet once I reached the shadowy realm under the trees, every step I took sent a soft crunch through the night. The lawn was a well-laid trap with fresh fallen leaves that dared to mar the manicured yard. My footsteps broke the stillness of the night. I kept pausing, straining my ears for even the smallest sound.
There!
A ragged inhale.
That was it; that was the spectre. Correcting my trajectory, I moved in that direction, breathing quietly, trying to stay hidden, but the very blood in my veins tingled in excitement! Deeper into the trees I went, where the yard became thick, almost forest-like. That was the reason my parents bought this property. Nature made it private and secluded, even though beyond the property wall there were roads, neighbors, and the bustle of the city right down the road.
A shadow slipped. My target glided into focus for the briefest of moments.
Madonna! It’s huge!
The mysterious presence was just out of reach, darting between the trunks. I forged ahead, redoubling my pursuit. Shadow slipped into darkness, and I lost the visual.
But it was there.
The phantom was real, not a figment of my imagination.
The air was chilled by the amorous embrace of autumn. The scent of damp earth and the slight rot of leaves were heavy compared to the crisp bite of frost that wasn’t quite ready to form. The cool dewiness clung to my skin as I moved through the underbrush, careful not to make too much noise. I couldn’t run—if I did, I’d trip over the gnarled roots and scattered branches that littered the ground back here where the gardeners didn’t prune. No one cared to ramble through the woods beside the crazy Rinaldi girl, and that was something I hadn’t done in far too long. It felt damn good to be in nature again, even if the reason that drove me into the thick expanse of trees questioned my sanity.
The shadows between the trees were deep, swallowing up the spaces where the moonlight couldn’t reach, and my eyes struggled to adjust. Every now and then, I’d catch a flicker of movement, just a flash of something, and my pulse would quicken, my breath catching in my throat.
And then silence descended, thick and expectant, broken only by the wild pulse in my veins. Was I close? Or had I lost the spectral presence? Adrenaline buzzed in my veins as I moved carefully, inching forward. The property wall was around here somewhere.
“Phantom? Is that you?” I breathed.
Great, I was the little idiot calling out for the monster in the dark.
I stepped out from behind a tree, and the shadows seemed to shift around me, playing tricks on my eyes. It was hard to tell where the light ended and the darkness began. A rough, animalistic snarl echoed through the trees, powerful and very close.
“Go back to bed, rusalka,” it warned.
“No!” I planted my hands on my hips. “Not until I’ve said what I came here to say.”
“You’re underdressed—again—and shaking with cold,” the spectre growled. “Turn that sweet ass around and go to bed. Or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and put you there myself.”
My jaw dropped. Who the hell does he think he is?
Because there was no longer any doubt in my mind that this was a man stalking me.
Instead of being disturbed by such language, my body was a livewire. The proximity brought about a strange electricity that aroused me more than I cared to admit. No one dared speak to me like that, and yet this stranger did.
Damn me, I wasn’t offended. I should have been. I was engaged, for chrissakes. My life was wrapped tight with the destiny of others. I had responsibilities!
And yet one dominant threat from the man lurking in the shadows had me warming with a forbidden fire.
“Isabella.” A twig snapped a few feet away.
He’ll catch me! Fear, ripe and sharp, finally broke through the tangle of other emotions. I bolted.
The moon watched overhead, pale and ghostly, and I felt a shiver of excitement run down my spine as I scampered away from the monster. I knew he could easily catch me—but the worst part? I wanted him to hunt me down. It wasn’t until I was safely back in my room, panting and unable to catch my breath, that the myriad of reasons why tempting the dark was the worst idea imaginable lectured me with their irrefutable logic.
Still…it was hard to find the proper remorse for my actions. The thrill of being haunted was a powerful distraction from the tragic reality of my life.