Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
HER
S ettling into a new town may be challenging. But I always manage. And it doesn’t hurt having an attractive, friendly neighbor living a floor above me, either.
I look at the stacks of boxes in my apartment and let out a sigh as I stretch, my back cracking. Time to tackle this endeavor with some tunes. After setting up my stereo, I select a KMFDM album to play and begin arranging my furniture. I put away my clothes, shoes, and then work on setting up my bed frame.
After spending hours making this place my own, my stomach grumbles. I still have a couple of boxes left to organize: one of my CDs, the other my movies. Instead, I flop on the couch to browse the phone book. After flipping through dozens of pages, I decide on Chinese food.
I call the restaurant, placing an order for General Tso’s chicken, fried rice, and egg rolls. Not the healthiest or most economical choice, but I can’t afford to be picky right now. My refrigerator is barren, and I need leftovers to tide me over long enough for a paycheck. I sink back into the couch, watching a game show as I wait for my takeout to arrive.
I feel my eyelids droop as a knock startles me awake. “Coming!” I say, grabbing my wallet from the coffee table as I hurry to answer the door. I greet the delivery man with a wave and pluck some bills from my wallet. He counts the money and, upon realizing I didn’t leave a tip, he frowns.
I give him an apologetic shrug, to which he shakes his head and gives me my order. I promise to make it up to you , I think, kicking the door shut once he departs. Returning to the couch, I set the bags on the table and dig in. The local news begins as I shovel gobs of rice into my mouth, nearly searing my tongue.
The weekly weather report ends, and the news anchor speaks. I catch only bits and pieces of what he’s saying before the feed switches to a woman standing outside of a house—the same one I drove past earlier today. I nearly choke on a piece of chicken as I grab the remote, turning up the volume.
“Police responded to a distress call on 182 Cherry Street late this morning. Officers were called to the property after learning there may have been a break-in. Police searched the house and found a man on the second floor, who had been murdered in what appeared to be a violent altercation.” I hold my breath, hoping the cause of death isn’t what I think it is. My stomach twists into knots as the reporter continues, “The victim died from multiple stab wounds. There is no confirmation from authorities yet whether this is connected to the series of murders that took place earlier this year in Vermont. We advise?—”
I quickly change the channel and bring a shaky hand to my forehead. This cannot be happening again. Death seems to follow me everywhere I go, sticking to me like an oozing brand and infecting everything I touch. After all, I was born the daughter of the Lakestone Reaper. Death is in my blood. Will I ever break free and live my life unburdened by this legacy?
I’m starting to think that I’m cursed. It’s irrational, I know. But every time someone close to me dies, I can’t help but wonder if I’m to blame.
As I close my eyes, I struggle to silence the barrage of thoughts that swarm through my mind. I take a deep breath and concentrate on my breathing, hoping to slow my racing heart. Some overwrought drama show plays softly in the background, but I can’t seem to focus on it. The muffled voices of the actors are barely audible as my head swirls with the past.
Maybe there’s something about me that attracts death.
I rise from the couch and walk over to the window. The stars in the night sky are beautiful, but they don’t offer any comfort. I wrap my arms around myself, feeling lost and alone. But I can’t give in to the dark thoughts that have plagued me since the moment the cops barged through the door and slapped handcuffs on my father’s wrists. I watched as they dragged him outside and slammed him against the hood of the cruiser before shoving him inside.
As they hauled him away, the truth hit me like a bolt of lightning. My father had been arrested for murder and was responsible for the killing spree that had loomed over Pennsylvania like a storm cloud even long before I was born.
For several months, I only saw my father on TV. He was always cuffed, with his ankle chains rattling as they ushered him from courtrooms to prison. The news coverage of his hearings was extensive, the case high-profile and the most exciting thing to happen in the state in decades. His expression was blank as he passed signs scrawled with horrible words: Monster! Murderer! Rot in hell!
But scattered among the detractors were a few supporters who saw him as an avenging angel of death. They justified his murders by pointing out that his victims were rapists, pedophiles, and other dangerous criminals who posed a threat to society. These signs, at least, brought a smile to his face.
But I can’t let go of the memories I have of him, the ones where he was my father. Not Cameron Cirillo, not the Lakestone Reaper. Dad . I hold them close like a forbidden, sacred treasure. Like the time he helped me build my first treehouse. We spent the whole day hammering and sawing away, and ended up with a treehouse that was the envy of the neighborhood. We spent hours up there, playing board games and telling stories.
Even when I was young, I knew my father was a complex man. Most people have both a dark side and a good side, and he was no exception. He was a loving father who always put his family first. I will never forget the sacrifices he made for us, and I will always cherish the memories we shared.
There’s still a sense of shame—the kind society instills in you. I know some people will never understand. They looked at him and saw only the darkness. But I’ll always remember the man who raised me and taught me how to be strong.
And if it weren’t for me, he never would have been caught.
I turn away from the window and return to my food. After finishing what I can, I put the leftovers in the fridge. I still need to figure out my employment situation, so I grab the newspaper from the kitchen counter and search through the wanted ads. Unfortunately, my lack of a college degree limits my options.
After skimming the pages, I find a few jobs that I’m surely qualified for. One is a cashier at a grocery store, another is a busboy at a restaurant. The third is a delivery driver for a pizza place. I circle the entries and decide to check the places out tomorrow. Although I’m not exactly thrilled about any of them, I need to start somewhere. Maybe I’ll drive around and scope out more places while I’m out.
I shut off the TV and head to my room. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I scowl at my tangled hair and bloodshot eyes. I shake my head and wipe my brow, the stuffy air more punishing than usual this evening. After turning on the fan, I open the window and sit in front of my vanity, tugging a brush through the knotted strands.
My new bedroom may be small, but it’s now mine. There are books on a shelf, a framed poster of Nine Inch Nails on the wall I got from my last job, as well as the movie poster for Friday the 13th Part II . There’s also a desk with a lamp where I can write in my journal. I want this space to be comfortable and inviting, a place where I can relax and unwind.
By the time I’m done fighting with my hair, exhaustion bears down on me. I’m seconds from crawling into bed when I see it—a dark figure darting across the street. I freeze, swallowing hard as the news report replays in my mind. For several moments, I don’t move and question if it was a hallucination. It’s likely nothing , I reason. Probably just an animal.
I change into light pajamas, turn off the light, and slip under the covers, hoping for a dreamless slumber.
I take a bite of an egg roll and scrunch my nose. The wrapper is soggy, and the filling is like a lump of ice in my mouth. I put it back on my plate and pop it in the microwave in a futile attempt to salvage my breakfast. I refuse to waste a perfectly good egg roll.
As the appliance whirs to life, I sigh. I have a long day ahead of me, and I wish I had something to wash my food down with. By the time the microwave dings, I’m practically drooling over the thought of a tall glass of orange juice. I take yet another bite of the egg roll, and this time, the filling is only slightly icy. Still not ideal, but at least it’s edible.
I need to go grocery shopping. My bank account is looking meager, and I need to secure employment before it gets worse. If I’m fortunate enough to get hired at the grocery store, perhaps they’ll offer an employee discount. That ought to help keep my fridge stocked more often.
I grab my bag, slip on my sandals, and leave the apartment. As I lock up, I hear footsteps climbing the stairs. I freeze and swallow to calm my pounding heart. Last night’s nightmare has me on edge. But I’m probably overreacting; after all, I’m not the only person who lives here.
Suddenly, a voice calls out to me. “Hey.”
I whirl around, my posture going rigid. “Uh … Can I help you?” I ask, doing my best to steady my voice.
The man is tall and thin, with dark hair and a beard. “I’m lost. Can you give me directions? I’m looking for a friend of mine …”
I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. I don’t know him, and I’m not sure if I should trust him. “Not sure if I can. I’m not from around here.” Only partially a lie.
“Oh,” he says, his shoulders drooping. “Well, thanks anyway.” He starts to walk away, but then he pauses and glances back at me. “Be careful out there. I heard there was a murder in the area recently.”
And then he’s gone .
I slowly exhale. The man seemed harmless enough, but his warning fills me with unease. Exiting the building, I eventually reach the reserved tenant parking lot, grateful not to have to fight for a spot. Getting in my car, I turn on the ignition and crank up the music, half-expecting to see the man again. But he’s nowhere to be found.
I pull out of the lot and drive downtown, a knot of apprehension tightening in my gut.