2. Mona #3
I’m not a hundred percent certain the metaphysical properties of crystals are real, but I like to believe they are. I like to think I can feel their effects. Worst case, it’s a placebo effect, and at the end of the day, I can live with that.
I one thousand percent believe in energy, spirituality, astrology, and that there’s more to life than meets the eye. I’m a Taurus, and, boy, do I align with Taurus characteristics.
Food is my love language. I’m more stubborn than I’ll ever admit. I’m nice … with a feral, angry bitch trapped inside who always wants to get out. But that’s beside the point.
I love collecting crystals in all forms. I don’t have a ton right now, just my bracelets and a few tumbled stones, but once I get back on my feet, I’ll get some more. Staple pieces. Towers. Carvings. I want it all.
Something moves out of the corner of my eye, and my blood runs cold as I slowly turn. The only light in the room is provided by a new small lamp next to my bed, gifted by my masked stalker. My breathing is heavy, loud in my ears as I freeze and wait for movement.
There.
Inside the broken sconce on the wall, something scurries, illuminated through the thin fabric shade. Something small and insect-like.
If there’s ever anything in life that I always show respect to, it’s creatures of all shapes and sizes. Men and people in general? Eww, no. But bugs, dogs, cats, plants, any living, breathing thing? Every single time.
“Hello there.” I peer up into the curve of the glass and find something tiny with eight fuzzy little legs and big eyes.
Oh my God, it’s a jumping spider.
Personally, I think they’re freaking adorable. They still occasionally give me the heebie-jeebies if they get too close or move too fast. But I know they aren’t truly out to hurt me. They’re just trying to survive, like the rest of us.
She’s built herself quite the web cocoon in there, but I can’t imagine she gets a lot of options for food in this old room. I’m not even sure if she made her way in here with me or claimed this space before I had the chance. Maybe I’m encroaching on her territory.
I quickly google how to determine if a spider is hungry and compare her abdomen with the images. She looks pretty thin, to be honest.
The next ten minutes are spent searching for the best food, and I end on mealworms since they’re the most accessible, and I can keep them longer in my fridge.
Now I just need to figure out how the heck I’m going to get to the nearest pet store, which is five miles away, without digging my car out of its grown-in hiding spot.
It took a long time to conceal it in the bushes and make it look like it’s been there forever, although nature helped.
But I’ll make damn sure that my girl will be taken care of today even if I have to unbury and bury my car all over again.
I glance at the time on my phone and curse under my breath. I’m running late, and losing this job is something I really can’t afford.
“I’ll get you some wormies, Ms. …” I quickly rack my brain and land on a name I’ve heard a million times from one of my favorite shows, Criminal Minds. “Ms. Penelope.”
My shift will probably take me through the late afternoon. There’s a big corporate family gathering today with over two hundred guests, who I’m sure will have a thousand kids with them. Which, in turn, means that I’ll be painting all of their faces—well, alongside the other face painter.
This isn’t exactly the job I was shooting for when I showed up to the walk-in interviews.
I wanted to be on the actors makeup team.
I might not have experience with the gore side, but I can crush the glam side.
However, those positions had already been filled, and in between a rock and a hard place, I took whatever job I could.
They offer good money and free boarding, unbeknownst to them. So, here I am, a professional brat wrangler.
I don’t hate kids. They’re fine, but I have never felt innately comfortable around them, like other women I know. I don’t think I was born with that instinct. Or maybe it’s just reserved for tiny little creatures like Penelope.
“I’ll see you later, Pen.” I grab my purse and sling it over my shoulder.
Being a face painter here also means that I have to dress up in costume every shift. It doesn’t have to be elaborate, and it’s not supposed to conceal our faces or have the risk of scaring the kids off.
Black eyeliner and my everyday wardrobe, and, boom, I’m a black cat with drawn-on whiskers and a nose. Complete with a pair of tights and my Doc Martens, which have been around as long, if not longer, than Ginny.
I take a few quick breaths, hyping myself up before leaning against the piece of wall that doubles as an inconspicuous door to listen for any movement in the hallway. The coast is clear.
Even though I now know it’s a masked man following me and moving throughout the house, I think the old rumors of this place being haunted still might be true.
Because it never fails that I always have this eerie, weighted feeling in my chest when I roam around, especially at night.
It feels like I’m constantly being watched.
I just can’t tell if it’s anxiety or something deep in my soul telling me to run.