14. Dollie—present day
Dollie—present day
A break from the house and the shadow that lurked was needed. I was driving myself crazy.
But this isn’t quite what I had in mind when I approached Shane with a tear-stained face and told him I needed to get out again.
I expected a quiet walk at the park close to our old apartment—an ice cream to accompany us on our travels around the pretty lake. I didn’t expect him to tell me to dress up for a night on the town.
The bar is rowdy and overcrowded, which is totally not my scene. Sweaty bodies bump against me and everyone else, and my pink satin dress sticks to me with what I hope isn’t someone else’s perspiration.
It’s not overly fitted, which proves to be a good thing when I pull it away from my skin at my waist, minimizing the exposure of my colostomy bag below.
Shane takes my hand in his, raising it enough for me to twirl, which is incredibly hard to do without getting stained by some girl’s raspberry martini.
Eager to get away from that martini and everyone else, I tuck myself against him, and with my back to his front and his mouth to my ear, he shouts over the music, “Do you want another drink?”
Nope, didn’t want the first one.
“I’m gonna get us another.”
Before I can tell him I’m good, he’s gone, disappeared into the sea of people he’s been scanning since we arrived.
The dance floor feels so foreign and lonely without his hand in mine. The music screaming into my ears abandons me, too, becoming white noise.
Disco lights rain down on everyone’s faces, each one growing paler, the mouths stained by brighter shades of red.
Clowns. Everywhere.
Air stalls in my lungs and refuses to leave. I force my eyes to close, hoping all will be right in the world when my eyes open again.
People . Normal-looking people in normal makeup dance badly around me.
That damn martini pops into my view again, splashing my dress and matching satin gloves with red droplets.
The people around me feel closer, one man in particular. His short body grinds against mine, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to grope me or steal my purse.
I turn, my arms flying out and pushing him away.
His paint-stained hands come up in surrender, white and red and black in front of my face. I focus on them, and the obvious fact that he’d clearly come here straight from work disappears from my mind.
Distance comes between us, but his face changes before he moves away. White, red, and black appear there, too—a painted-on smile, diamond eyes, and a complexion that could glow in the dark.
It lasts only one second.
Forcing my eyes to close a second time, I open them to see the same thing as before.
Normality.
The man no longer resembles the nightmare from my childhood. He looks like so many other men in here, with his shaved head and bloodshot eyes from all the alcohol he’s consumed.
Still, I want to be nowhere near him. Or anyone else.
I have to leave.
This place is worse than home.
Shane is still at the bar when I find him, and he hasn’t been served yet. Many women gather around, all fighting for the bartender’s attention, and Shane does little to explain that there’s a queue.
Maybe he’s changed his mind about that second drink.
He sends a message, asking where someone is when I tap him on the shoulder.
“Do you mind if we get some food and head back to the house?”
I can’t believe that place is where I want to head, but far too many people are here for me, and I’m beyond overstimulated.
“But we haven’t been here that long.”
“Are you expecting friends?”
“What do you mean?”
“You were texting.”
“Oh, no. One of the guys from work said he might stop by here for a drink. I haven’t seen him, though.”
“Then, maybe, just maybe, he found something better to do.” I try to be seductive, trailing his chest with a finger, but it goes unnoticed. So do the words, “I could think of better ways to spend our night.”
Shane just stares at me.
I give up trying to be hot when I’m clearly not and lean against the sticky bar, where many drinks have been spilled. Doing so, I twist my ankle in my old heels, confirming with a loud groan how badly I want to leave.
“Look, you know what, if you want to stay, that’s okay.” Unbuckling the thin straps, I take the deathtraps disguised as pretty shoes off my feet. “But I don’t think I can.”
I don’t wait for him, squeezing through the crowd of people to get outside. Who knows where I’ll go from there, because me and that house alone is not something I feel strong enough for.
The chill claws up my bare feet as I traipse onto the road without my shoes, heading in the direction of my hometown. But the hard and slightly uneven concrete feels better than the dance floor.
“Lancie, wait up!”
I relax at the sound of Shane’s voice, even if he does use the nickname I hate. Careening quickly, I find him stomping on my shadow. He’s in my breathing space, which is far too close for comfort for me. I step back but take his hand.
“I’m glad you decided to come with me.” My body disagrees with my words, and I tremble.
I shouldn’t be nervous, but occasionally, men have that effect on me, even this one, who has never physically hurt me. It’s the closeness. No one has ever been able to get close—except one.
And look at us now, miles apart, with a death threat between us.
“Sure. I know you won’t be okay in that house alone. I’ll carry these for you.” He takes my heels, swinging them in his hand as he leads the way.
I don’t say anything as he continues along the road, obstructing the few cars that venture through this tiny town.
His walking on the road is a giveaway that he’s angry, so I hang back a few steps.
It’s the only giveaway because he says nothing.
Opting to stay silent, too, I follow him past the last of the fast-food restaurants. The pavement leads the way for me as another car edges around my fast-moving boyfriend.
“Do you want to get food?”
It was a simple question, met with Shane’s anger.
Red with fury, he turns, teeth bared. All I see is a monster in the approaching nightfall. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but it’s a sight that forces a laugh from me.
I do that sometimes, laugh when nervous.
But Shane doesn’t see the funny side, his snarl growing.
The diamantes on my fancy new shoes light up the sky as they travel through the air before landing on the other side of the road, almost hitting some woman who is all dolled up.
“I wanted a fucking drink! I wanted to stay out! We could have gotten food later! Why do you always have to be such a boring cunt?” Shane marches on, continuing to be a hindrance to another vehicle while I step through the fog of shock and collect my heels.
Still wide-eyed, my apology is sincere as I bend at the woman’s feet. I don’t admire her painted toenails with the chips, but I like the color.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her as I kneel on the road barefoot, and she stands on the pavement in glamorous gold heels that complement her dress.
She’s a little older than me, pretty and together, with her hair curled into waves too sophisticated for the bar she’s likely heading to.
I don’t recognize her, and I almost feel like I should warn her about the place, but she’s the one to voice a warning as I rise to my feet.
“Don’t apologize to me. Not for a man, honey. Especially one who isn’t worth your time.” She gives me a sad smile. “And be careful not to dirty those pretty gloves.”
My pretty gloves are already stained from the dirt I’ve just brushed from my shoes.
A tear falls from my eye, and I pat it away as I stand alone.
She—the glamorous woman—is already caught up with friends. I watch momentarily as her long, dark hair bounces, wondering what she meant by Shane not being worthy of my time when there is only a small possibility that she knows him, given that he grew up two towns over.
Spinning around, I find Shane is nowhere to be seen.
All I see is a string of small businesses with barely any customers.
I pass by each one before turning into the chicken restaurant on my right.
I figure food will sweeten him up, so I put aside the limited options for myself and hope there’s enough change in my purse to get him something.
Shane is already in here. Fast fingers move along his phone screen as he waits to be called next.
As I move toward him, I brace myself for the charges that will hit his credit card tomorrow, because that’s what he does when he’s in a bad mood.
He pulls out his phone and recklessly spends money he doesn’t have. And it will be my fault.
“You hungry?” he asks, his attitude lighter, thanks to the smell of greasy chicken.
But I’m still on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop—or for them to be tossed across the street again.
“I’ll just get a small fry if that’s okay.”
“Sure. Go grab us a table. We’ll eat here.”
The muddy hill to the house dirties my feet. As I move through the house, the dry mud flakes off with each step, and guilt trickles down my spine. This is still partly Ambrose’s home, and he wouldn’t like these germs.
Shaking out my hair, I rid that man from my mind.
Looking back at the prints makes me second-guess the carpet Shane and I discussed for the entire downstairs floor plan.
Shane has finally learned to close the front doors, but I linger in the doorway to the reading room just in case he needs a hand. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I stare into the darkness.
He flicks on the light, and a yellow glow soothes me.
“Nice and bright.” He smiles down at me. He’s been trying to talk to me on and off throughout the journey home—the odd word here and there leaving his mouth after the world’s most silent dinner.
“Are you still mad?” he asks, setting down my shoes.
“I wasn’t mad. I was embarrassed.”
“I’m sorry.” His words sound sincere enough for me to continue giving him the time of day—or, in this case, night. “Are you coming around to my charms?”
Unmovable arms lock around my waist.
And I do try to remove them.
“The only charms you have, my friend, are the lucky ones in the cereal cupboard.” Something he claimed from whichever intruder thought it would be funny to fill the cupboards.
Shane breaks away and heads to the kitchen. I follow, eyeing each dark shadow in the reading room and ignoring his laugh at my pathetic joke.
He fills a glass with water and drinks it in a matter of seconds. I fill my favorite cup because any drink always tastes better in it, especially with a yellow bear in a tank top, and I take a sip, staring out into the darkness.
My reflection stares back from the window. Shane’s, too, as he comes up behind me, and I tense.
“You sure you’re not still mad at me?” He brushes my hair from my face.
Setting down my cup after another sip, I shake my head.
“That’s good.”
He gives me little time to say or do anything else as calloused hands scuff the edges of my dress and then my thighs. He hikes the satin up over my hips, tucking it into my underwear.
He tucks each edge into my panties, holding it in place. The sound of his zipper echoes in the silent room.
“What are you doing?”
“Showing you my other charms, seeing as you aren’t mad.”
Shane’s words kiss my neck, but his lips don’t follow the action. His breath is the only thing to caress me as he rubs two fingers over my crotch twice, pulls my lacy briefs to the side, and lines himself up.
“You’re not wearing anything, and I’m not ready.” My body stiffens, and my hips edge away into the kitchen cabinets. “You need to work harder for it.”
“Okay.” Shane’s fingers move to my clit, but it’s faster than I like, and I’ve already wasted countless breaths in the past telling him this. So, I let him continue.
Pulling a condom from his wallet and rolling it over his length, he lines his penis up again.
“Ready?” he breathes out, not waiting for an answer before he pushes in the first inch. His head collapses onto my shoulder, and he mumbles something about how tight it feels.
He pushes in another inch, and I try to relax into it, but with my body still not adjusted, I focus on my gritted teeth in my reflection. All attempts fail as my image slowly changes before my eyes.
My petite frame widens, and broad shoulders appear.
My height increases, and the red stains from the martini on my pink dress begin to look something more like blood on an open white shirt.
The body below—now, a man’s and not mine—appears scarred.
My neck cranes to see his face. Wavy hair, which could be deep blue or green, is concealed by the darkness cascading around him.
Loose strands fall into his eyes that look so enchanting against his stark white painted face.
A clown.
A giant hand comes up and slams against the window, sending me backward onto Shane’s penis. He hisses with the pain, and I scream out with the fullness, bending over with the pain until my knees slam against the ground and his body slinks out of mine.
“What the fuck, Lancie? Are you okay? What happened?” He drops to my side as I mewl in agony, still examining his invisible injury as each question rolls from his tongue.
With shaking hands, I pull my dress from the corners of my underwear and set it back in place.
On bruised knees, I crawl beneath the kitchen table, hiding behind the pink checkered cloth that’s bright and new in the black kitchen.
All I see is the cold fog leaving my mouth until Shane lifts the tablecloth.
“What is it?”
“A clown.” No sound comes out of my mouth, just more air.
“Lancie, we’ve talked about this. Earlier, when you told me there were shadows walking around the reading room and talking to you. I took you out, and the second we come home, it happens?—”
“I know.” I rub my face and wipe the tears from my eyes. “And I know it’s ridiculous.”
“Do you think it’s time to talk to someone?”
Before I can answer, a noise echoes in the distance, and I know it’s the front door.
“Did you hear that?” I find myself asking because, honestly, I’m not sure what’s real right now. “It was the front door.”
“We wouldn’t hear the front door from here.”
“But you did hear it?”
Shane nods, then the tablecloth drops. The sound of his footsteps gets quieter and quieter as he drifts through the house. I crawl out from beneath the table, avoiding the muddy prints he left behind.
Standing in the kitchen, a chill runs down my spine. It causes my body to tremble harder.
Seconds pass before Shane is back, his voice before his body.
“There’s no one there. I checked the music room to see if something had fallen, but nothing. We do need to paint in there, too, though.” He appears in the doorway. “Also, the front doors were loc—” he cuts off.
“What?” I follow his gaze to the window behind me. To the crack that caused a chill and the bloody handprint that put it there.
“I’ll call the police.”