17. Phoebe
Chapter seventeen
Phoebe
I wave goodbye to Letty and Scott, two of the other performers here at Behind the Lens , as I rush for the parking lot, where my old, beat-up silver Honda Civic is parked. I lost track of time upstairs cleaning and putting away my toys, my thoughts on the insanity of my actions, and then chatting at the front desk. Full darkness has now fallen, causing creepy shadows to form in the almost deserted parking lot. I’m such an idiot. I shouldn’t have refused Scott’s offer to walk me to my car. I quickly look back over my shoulder to see if he’s still at reception, but notice that it’s now empty. Damn it.
My blood races inside of my veins, the sound loud in my ears, as I hold my keys gripped between my fingers, and try to remain in the sparse lights on the perimeter of the parking area. Why the fuck did I park so far from the front door? Oh right, I’ve never been here this late and never had to worry before. It’s close to midnight, and every horror movie I’ve ever watched is now reeling inside my mind. Way to go, Phoebe, today, you’re doing one stupid thing after the other. What ’s up next, huh? Shall we pick up strangers at the drive-thru on the way home? Perhaps a fucking killer clown will pop up out of nowhere, or some unhinged psychopath will lure you into a van filled with some dark smutty books, and you won’t even hesitate to climb inside.
I’m a few feet away from my car when I hear something snap behind me. The sound is loud and ominous in the silent night air. Like the idiot I am, instead of running straight for my car, as any normal, sane person would do, I actually stand still and turn around, scanning the area, but I don’t see anything but two other vehicles in the parking lot. The thick trees, with their full branches, and deep shadows, look menacing, and my skin prickles with cold sweat, and a feeling of someone watching me. “Get it together, Phoebe, nothing is there,” I whisper to myself, and take the last couple of steps to my car at a run. I unlock the door, throw my bag, and rush inside, locking the door once I am safely within. My breathing is exiting me in harsh pants, the sound too loud in the closed silence of the car, as my eyes search out the front window for whatever is making me uneasy. “I’ve really lost it now, I’m seeing monsters in the shadows,” I chastise myself.
I don’t actually see anything, and I’m just about to break into a giggle for being a scaredy cat, when something underneath one of my front windshield wipers catches my attention. What the hell is that? I turn on all the interior lights and move closer to the window. At first, I’m confused. It looks like something is stuck under the wiper, forcing it to protrude at an awkward angle. There’s also a dark substance smeared across the lower corner of the windshield. I try to activate the wipers, and one moves, but the other is stuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, what now? I swear it feels like I am starring in my own horror movie, and I am for sure the stupid character that dies right in the beginning. I’m tempted to just start driving home, never mind whatever is stuck to my windshield, but whatever it is, is now spreading, and streaking across more o f the glass, with the momentum of the active wipers. Fuck, is that blood?
I reach for my bag and grab my small blade, clutching it in my hand as I once again scan the area outside of the car, but I don’t see any signs of anyone. I quickly dart out of the car door, before I can rethink how foolish my actions are, and round the front. I lean across the front bumper to get a closer look, and my eyes widen at what’s trapped under the windshield wiper. My stomach plummets as I realize it’s a dead bird, its head at an odd angle, and its blood is what is streaking across the glass. How the hell did that get there like that? Poor little thing. Somehow, it got trapped in there, and must have tried to release itself, and that’s why the wiper is bent awkwardly. I use my empty hand to lift the wiper, and the little broken body slips off and slides down the front of the car, with something wrapped around it. Jesus, what is that? I forget my surroundings as I reach for the bleeding bird, and realize it’s got a cloth or something wrapped around its little body. I place the blade down on the hood, as I attempt to untangle the rolled-up fabric, and when I finally get it loose, a scream rips from my lips, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The scrap of fabric has bloody words on it. My knees shake so badly that I have to smack my hands on the hood of the vehicle, to prevent myself from falling to the asphalt.
Oh my God, I grab the blade and force myself back into my car, cranking the engine and flying out of the parking lot. The fabric goes flying off the hood where I dropped it, along with the dead bird, as I race t oward home. My hands tremble, and I attempt to hold onto the wheel, and not drive myself into oncoming traffic in my panic.
He was there at Behind the Lens , which means he knows where I work. He must know what I do for money, and he has some crazy idea that I belong to him. The words repeat over and over from my lips, each time becoming more frightening. ‘You are mine, pretty clover. I don’t share.’ What the hell does that even mean? Pretty clover? Oh my god! This has just gotten so much worse. The note is a threat, and so is the broken, dead bird. Is that what he’s saying will happen to me?
I should go to the police and file a report. This is someone dangerous who’s stalking me, and making crazy threats. My worry is that my story, and identification, won’t pass muster, and they will somehow discover who I am. All of the mafia families have the police on their payroll, and I’m under no disillusionment. I know whose territory I am in. The Russian mafia is no different than the Irish or Italian one. If they discover that I have been hiding in their territory, they will use me, as either a bargaining chip with my family, or as ransom. I can’t allow that to happen, not after everything I’ve done to be free.
I’ll just have to be more careful, and never be anywhere alone like that again. I have to figure out who this could be, and if they truly mean me harm. Once again, the thought that either Stallion69 or Strokemyshillelagh could be who’s stalking me, enters my mind. Except one was just live on a chat with me, where I could at least see his shadow. Does that mean it’s the other one? Could it be Stallion69 who left me that message, and a dead bird to terrorize me?