Nelson Darkness Whispers

1. Auflage 2021
ISBN: 978-1-0983-8451-7
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 222 Seiten

Milena Hargrave's mother, Lisa, was a Masquerader; a member of the City's notorious secret society. Each weekend she disappeared into the abandoned amusement park on the Lake. After Lisa's death, Milena is invited to sample the Masquerader's exclusive brew. Despite sinister rumors and the creepy atmosphere, Milena treks deeper into their mad world, entranced by the mysteries lurking just beneath the surface. Unaware that the cost is to share Lisa's fate, or succumb to insanity.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Nelson, J.S.

Leseproben

Chapter Three I woke on the ground, inches from the open grave. No one else saw the masked characters, but I’d created a spectacle worthy of Lisa’s daughter. Throughout the luncheon afterwards, I avoided eye contact. Actors from the Theatre offered condolences, but I couldn’t bear the small talk. Excusing myself, I rushed to the restroom, thankful to discover it empty. I collapsed on the plush dressing bench in the largest stall. A boisterous group entered, a stall door slammed, heels clattered, and a faucet gushed. “Did you hear what happened at the cemetery?” a woman said. “Oh my gosh, I was there! The daughter went nuts!” responded another from the stall. I hunkered down, although they couldn’t see me. “She claims there were masked people in the trees!” cackled the original voice. A chorus of derisive laughter echoed. I squeezed my eyes shut, and cowered farther, wanting to escape but knowing it was impossible without confronting them. “Did she say Lisa was hiding behind a tree?” shouted the girl from the stall. The whoosh of a flushing toilet drowned out her next comment. “She’s as crazy as her mom,” came a third. “Maybe it runs in the family!” said the cackler. “Everyone knows Lisa Hargrave belonged in the nut-house. I mean, she heard voices! And c’mon, only psychos end up on Hangman’s Row. Wouldn’t surprise me if the daughter ends up there, too…” Paper towels crinkled and their words trailed off as the group exited. I exhaled at the soft thud of the wooden door closing against the frame. Yes, Lisa had her moments. She had always insisted I call her Lisa, as maternal titles made her feel old. There were times she froze amid a conversation, shuffled like a zombie to her room, and stayed there for days. They bewildered me growing up, thinking at first I’d done something to make her mad. So I sang or read to her during these sad times, curling up beside her, listening to her shallow breathing, and trying to magically heal her with all the love in my heart. Seeing the light leave her eyes so suddenly and the drastic switch in moods caused issues I still haven’t addressed, as the grief therapist so pointedly informed me. Yes, sometimes she became a different person. Controlling, angry, manipulative. Nice Lisa and Mean Lisa, I named them as a child, drawing us as a family of three: my brown-haired stick figure in the middle, Nice Lisa smiling on the right, Mean Lisa frowning on the left. It caused quite a fuss with my kindergarten teacher. But what I remembered most was her constant advice to seek the good in everything, to enjoy myself no matter what. “Even if you look like an idiot, you’re having fun!” She encouraged when I joined ballet at nine years old. Most of my memories were of Nice Lisa: her pursuit of passion, of life itself. The City, however, only recalled ‘Kooky Lisa Hargrave,’ as the newspapers dubbed her. A wave of dizziness and shame rocked me. I sagged onto the bench, mind spinning, wondering if I inherited the crazy gene. I lingered there for hours, refusing to face anyone else, waiting to exit until I was sure every person had left. My life was falling apart. Lisa was dead. Who hung her or why remained a mystery. I had few friends, too obsessed with dancing to keep in touch with anyone besides Brit and the Wallace’s after high school, and I’d never believed in mixing clients with my personal life. I missed the final rehearsals for the Buffett wedding. It was the studio’s wealthiest client, and they were forced to refund payment. They fired me immediately. For three weeks, I drank myself to oblivion, only leaving the condo for more alcohol. I wound up sick and tortured on the bathroom floor, drinking too much to numb the aching, screaming, emptiness of grief. “Can you give me something?” I begged Brit, despite the roiling backlash in my stomach. Desperate, I’d called her. She didn’t broadcast it, but I knew of her involvement with the City’s seedy side. She and Lisa argued about Brit’s drug usage when I was growing up. They always ended with Brit’s frustrated response: “You’re my big sister, not my mom!” If anyone had connections to a mind-altering substance, it was my aunt, owner of Club Darkness, the wildest club in the City. “Have you gone to counseling?” she asked. “Why, because I’m as nutty as Lisa?” “That’s not what I meant, Mel. Have you been to grief counseling?” she asked. “Yes,” I exhaled. “I went after the funeral, but it was just a shrink lecturing at me.” “Hmm. What happened to that guy? Derek? Darren? Dwight?” “You mean David? Ha!” I retorted with a cynical bark of laughter. “Uh-oh. Nasty break up?” “He was the first person I called that day. I was frantic.” I swallowed, struggling to talk despite the crater in my chest. “He said he didn’t want to deal with ‘complications’. That’s why we were ‘just a fling,’” I repeated savagely, fingers curling in air quotes. “He said he can’t handle someone else’s baggage and not to call him again.” I paused, waiting for her to hang up or change the subject. In her world, if it wasn’t fun, it didn’t exist. She didn’t let any emotion get too deep; never cared enough to be affected. In fact, I’d never seen Brit subdued until the burial. Emboldened by her silence, I continued: “I want to escape. Forget! The counselor said to let the grief run its course. People brush me off as if I’m a melodramatic teenager. But I mean it. Everything is pointless. Got anything for that?” I asked. Other than the strains of traffic from the cracked balcony doors, silence reigned. “I can’t go back to ‘normal,’ because it’s gone! I’m restless. Lost. Nothing satisfies. Nothing fits.” I faltered. “Can you give me something?” I begged again. “What do you mean?” her tone was wary. “Look, I know your clients have access to substances. If there’s anything out there to help me survive this — or forget — you can get it.” She didn’t answer. Static crackled over the cordless phone. “Vodka only goes so far,” I pled. “What about dancing? What happened to Miss Goody Two-Shoes, ‘I must stay in peak mental and physical shape for competition ballroom and teaching.’” “I got fired,” I said. “Oh, Milena.” She sighed. “I’d ask how desperate you are, but it’s obvious.” She paused for so long I thought she hung up. “Let me talk to my contacts and I’ll call you back. That cool?” “What’s one more day,” I replied in surrender. “What are you willing to risk for this?” Indecision resonated in Brit’s voice twenty minutes later. “I don’t care if it’s dangerous or illegal. Whatever you have,” I begged. She blew into the receiver, causing me to jerk the handset from my ear. “Meet me at the Pier in three hours,” she stated, as if regretting the words. “And get a costume.” “A costume?” “A nice dress and a mask. I’m sure you can find one at Cleo’s,” she replied. “What are we doing? Trick-or-treating?” “Do you want the stuff or not?” Annoyance obvious in her voice. “Yes…” I hedged. “How do you think you’ll get it? Home delivery?” I growled in frustration. “So you’d rather sit alone, wishing you could stop the pain when the answer is ten blocks away? Get a mask — for masquerades, not Halloween — and meet me at the Pier.” I rubbed my temples against the start of a tension headache. I hated arguments. With a passion. “Masquerades? As in the Masqueraders?” “Should I wait for you or not?” she barked. “See you then,” I grumbled. The thought crossed my mind several times a day that the Masqueraders were involved in Lisa’s death. Did they know who killed her? Was she with them in her last moments? She was a member, after all. But blind speculation would only put me on the couch, depressed and alone. Again. There was a solution right now. All I had to do was get it. I threw on a pair of sweats and flagged a taxi. The only two places open at this time of night were neighboring costume and frivolity shops in the shady part of town: Stoner’s and Creepy Cleo’s, a weird voodoo shop. Brit and I dubbed it that as giggling kids, ducking in and scaring each other, though the proprietor bore no resemblance to the TV psychic, Miss Cleo. Forty minutes later, I rambled Stoner’s aisles, hoping they had something suitable so I could avoid Creepy Cleo’s. The only masks here were childish; attire for a frat party, not an elegant masquerade. I skimmed the merchandise once more. The irritated store clerk snapped her gum and rattled her keys at the counter, moving the sign from ‘Yes, We’re Open!’ to ‘Sorry, We’re Closed.’ I left deep in thought, aware of the kind I needed. The kind Lisa had. I dreaded going in Cleo’s, yet I dreaded riffling through Lisa’s things more. I’d find a gown and mask if I searched hard enough, but the torrent of emotion and memories it required was more than I could handle. Creepy voodoo place it is, I resolved, bracing...