"Why do we stand out here?" Genevieve asked. "It's so cold, but here we are anyway, in the wind, shivering inside." She glanced to the right to see if her companion would be answering.
The girl didn't look back at her; she simply stared at the empty air in front of her. Her long blonde hair danced around her head, twisting and weaving designs, but never tangling. That face seemed so familiar to Genevieve—the high cheek-bones, slightly upturned nose, fair skin. She wore a long, old-fashioned dress of russet tones that seemed modest enough, though the top buttons of the bodice were undone, and the tie at the neck of the white shirt beneath had fallen apart in the wind. While that only seemed casual to Genevieve, as if the girl had just found the upper part of the ensemble too constricting, she immediately got the sense that wasn't how her clothing should be. The state of dress should be confining, should be humble, but here she stood, audacious in her choice to ignore the norm. Her shoulders were pulled back in either defiance or confidence—Genevieve couldn't be sure which. It was possibly both. Whatever the attribute behind it, she looked strong, proud, and full of certainty.
"Why are we here?" Genevieve repeated.
"This is where we need to be," the girl replied. She turned her bright blue eyes in a sideway glance at Genevieve, and her lips held a faint smile. "It's not as cold when you're used to it."
Genevieve shuddered. "I don’t think I'll ever be used to it."
"You already are, Genevieve." Her companion took a few steps forward into the snow, paused, then turned around to face her.
"Then why am I freezing?"
"You don't remember how not to."
Genevieve's hair blew in her face, and she swept it back to see the action mimicked by her companion. It was then she knew her—recognized that face, that hair. The brazen air about the girl had thrown Genevieve off at first, but now she realized she stared at herself.
Or, rather, another version of herself.
"How can I remember, then?"
Her double stepped toward her with slow, calculated steps, then stopped inches away. She produced a thin, spiral bound sketchbook similar to the one Gen carried with her every day.
"Work on your project," she replied. As Genevieve reached out to take the book, she found it floating midair, her double gone.
Wrapping her fingers around the book's edge, she felt their tips warm immediately. The heat wound around her hands and up to her arms, then all through her body so she was nearly sweating in her heavy, dark clothes.
She stared down at the book, struggling to read the scrawled letters across the front. Nothing was coming to her—for some reason, none of the dark lines made any sense to her brain. Still, this book had made her warm somehow, and she clutched it to her chest thankfully.
Heavy footsteps crunched the snow behind her, but Genevieve didn't look. Filled with the warmth now, she knew these steps, knew who made them, knew why he was here. The sight of his shadow on the snow approaching hers seemed familiar to her—comforting even. She smiled.
"You're back," she said quietly.
He didn’t respond, although his shadow moved closer. The shadow paused, melding with hers and suggesting he stood just behind her. Confirming that was the hand she felt on her waist.
"I wondered when you'd find me," Gen said. She was about to turn to face him when she felt something sharp pierce her side.
Genevieve cried out and arched back involuntarily, dropping the notebook into the snow. Her gaze followed it to the ground, glazing over from the pain as she glanced around. Blood slithered down the side of her dress, staining the pure white snow where it began to pool.
This couldn't be him, he wouldn't...he wouldn't do this, not now, not anymore...
As if knowing the doubt in her thoughts, the man's grip on her waist tightened, holding her in place as his other hand thrust the knife deeper into her side. Just when she thought the pain couldn't worsen, he gave the blade a twist, then tore it out of her side again.
Genevieve slumped onto her knees, gripping her side. Blood, as cold as ice, gushed past her fingers, weakening her further with every second that ticked by. She felt her body sinking forward, falling down, crashing face first into the snow, then laying there, motionless, as she tried to muster up any remaining strength. Her brain screamed at her to get up, get help, but her body seemed to realize it was too late. All she could manage was to turn onto her back and stare up at the shadowed figure above her. Blinding sunlight shone down as he stood over her, casting all of his features into darkness.
She tried to form questions, to ask him why he would do this, why kill her...but within her, she knew. A single tear, cold as her blood, gathered in the corner of her eye and slid down her face as the man—her killer—knelt at her side and brought the bloody knife up to her throat. The sun faded as her vision began to fail her, though her gaze managed to settle on his lips, turned upward in a cruel grin. While he enjoyed watching these final moments of hers, they didn't seem to be moving fast enough for his liking. He pressed the tip of the blade to her throat and gave it a violent slash.
When Genevieve opened her eyes and awoke in her bed, she still felt the cold of her dream.
At a young age she had developed the habit of kicking off the blankets as she slept, but when she woke after this dream—this nightmare—the thick layers of sheets and comforters were still wrapped snugly around her. Disliking the feeling of anything constricting her when she was laying down, her immediate instinct was to throw the sheets off of her onto the floor, but the cold air that had frozen her face and exposed shoulder made her hesitate.
It wasn't even October yet—why the hell was the house so cold? At first she thought it might just be the after effects of the dream, but no, there was a definite chill in the room.
The dream...
The memory of it came rushing back to her as she slowly sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She was standing on some cold snowy hill wearing an ugly, old-looking long dress, talking to her evil twin dressed all old-fashioned as well, who was telling her to finish her art project? Freud wasn't needed for this one: obviously she was having some inner conflict. That her other self was telling her to do homework seemed a little odd, sure, but it was something she tended to avoid, so no wonder her subconscious wanted to shout about it. And it had clearly been a sketchbook in her hands, suggesting she should be working on that stupid independent, semester-long self-portrait project for Art.
Remembering the final moments as she lay dying, however, sent a fresh stream of involuntary shivers through her. That was clearly a reference to her stalker. It was something else that had been on her mind for the past two days, though she'd been trying not to think about it. But there it was, popping up in her dream.
The meaning of her dream/nightmare settled, Genevieve was about to get out of bed when she felt her body hesitate. Though she had no desire to leave the warmth provided by layers of blankets, it was more than that—it was that the mood of the dream seemed to carry with her into the real world. Gone was the comfort of her bedroom, her personal space. Sketches and paintings on rich violet walls, the dark Venetian blinds, the old brass bed she'd had since childhood—at first glance, all of it looked the same. But now it was cold. Foreign, even. While she'd awakened to the room for over a decade, it suddenly didn't feel as though it was her sanctuary anymore. Somehow, it had been invaded by her dream-killer, and as much as she wanted to get out of the room, she was almost too afraid to move.
I'm being ridiculous.. . She closed her eyes and forced away the dream. Think happy thoughts. That's all she had to do—she'd forget in no time. So what was happy? Not clowns; they were scary. Puppies made her think of puppy mills, which definitely weren’t happy. Ah, Janine. Definitely a happy enough thought. She'd just keep a mental image of Janine handy, and the nightmare would slip away.
She cursed her mother's choice to have bare hardwood floors as she swung her legs to the side of the bed and touched the ground. The place was freezing—who the hell cared if bare floors were better for her allergies? This was ridiculous.
Gen had no sooner sleepily wandered out into the hall towards the bathroom when her mother, hearing Gen's footsteps due to her super-parental-hearing abilities, thumped up the stairs to start yelling immediately.
"Goddamn, Gen, I've been calling you to get up for—"
Genevieve stopped in the bathroom door way and swung around to face her mom. "I just got up—you can wait the four minutes it takes for me to pee and brush my teeth to tell me whatever it is that has you screaming at me on a Saturday morning."
"Did you even look at the clock? It's after twelve!"
"Saturday afternoon, then."
"Levi has called you over half a dozen times this morning!"
Oops, Genevieve thought, a hint of guilt entering her mind. He had called the night before as well, while her mom was out at a meeting and she and her dad sat in the living room watching South Park. Thankfully, Dad had answered, and after Gen gave him the, "I'm not home!" look, he passed on the message that she was busy doing housework and would talk to him later.
"Imagine my surprise when he said you were supposed to call him back last night—that damn phone has been ringing off the hook since eight o'clock this morning!"
Wow, eight? Levi didn't usually get up that early on a Saturday—they must have won their game.
"Uh, sorry?" Gen offered, knowing there was nothing she could say that would make her mother chill out.
"Are you going to call him?"
"Sure," she said. On some level she meant it, though deep down she was aware that she probably wouldn't get around to it that day before she left for Meredith's.
"No, of course not," Rebecca said. "You'll just put it off and put it off! God, you're just like your father."
Well, Genevieve couldn’t argue with that.
"We're going to Stephie's for movie night tonight anyway," Gen said instead. "I'll be seeing him there."
"I'm not taking your calls all day," she declared. "Damn it, just an ounce of responsibility from you sometimes would work wonders on my sanity!" With that, she turned and stormed back down the stairs.
Gen didn't know who her mother was kidding—even if both she and her dad made an effort, Rebecca Weist would still find plenty to get worked up over. There seemed little point in trying.
Half an hour later—twenty minutes of which was spent standing under the hot water of the shower, wishing she didn't have to leave the warm bathroom and venture into the arctic wasteland that was her house—Genevieve was dressed and wandering into the kitchen for a rather late breakfast.
"Your mother informs me you are to phone Levi," Leo Weist called from his perch on one of the barstools pulled up to the kitchen's island. The newspaper crackled as he turned the page to scan the sports section.
"Where'd she go?" Gen asked, assuming the only reason her mother wasn't there to provide the reminder herself was that she was no longer on the premises.
"There's a problem with the air conditioner, and since she wasn't getting an answer when she called the company, she decided the only reasonable action was to go down there herself and personally ask that they come and look at the system."
"Of course...that's the only reasonable solution."
After letting an eager Penny out to run around the backyard, Gen returned to the kitchen. Never a big eater when she first woke up, she simply grabbed an apple from the fridge for the walk to Meredith's place, and filled her worn messenger bag with sketchpad and art supplies.
"Hey, where are you going?" her father asked as she started for the door.
Gen back-pedalled into the kitchen to pause at her dad's side and give his cheek a quick peck, as she had every time she went out to a friend's house since she was a child. "I'll be back later."
"I'm pretty sure that didn't really answer the question I asked," he responded, though she was on her way to the front door again. "And I am to say you didn't call Levi back because...?"
"I’m going to someone's house to work on a project," she replied.
"Seriously, Genny—where are you going?"
"I am serious! Her name's Meredith, and we're doing a Geography project."
"Meredith what?" he asked, displaying an uncharacteristic amount of skepticism.
"Meredith..." Damn, she didn't even know the girl's last name! "Well, I don't remember. She's new."
"Sure she is."
Genevieve slammed the front door shut behind her with a little too much force. Whatever. Like it was so impossible to imagine she was doing homework on a Saturday with a new friend...
Okay, she had to admit that was odd. They were already probably assuming she was on drugs or something—the next step would be weekly urine tests and a curfew. That might turn out to be a problem with the occasional joint and beer she had when it was Stephie’s turn to host their weekly movie night.
Guess I should call Lev back, she thought, and began the search for her phone. But it was true what she said to her dad; she’d be seeing him tonight anyway. Gen stowed the phone back in her bag; she’d call him when she got back from working on the project.
Meredith lived at the other end of Newhaven, in an area Genevieve wasn't too familiar with. At one point it had been an industrial district, but the factories had closed down years ago. Most of the buildings were torn down to make room for subdivisions, while the odd one remained to be converted into apartments. As Genevieve looked over the address scrawled on the paper she'd been given the day before, she realized Meredith lived in one of the expansive ex-warehouses. It looked like hell on the outside, but it was probably damn expensive. She hadn't gotten the sense from Meredith that her family had that kind of money, but here she was, about to knock on the door of a studio apartment that probably went for a few hundred thousand.
The front door was steel and at least four feet taller than Genevieve. She reached up to knock, but couldn't quite force her knuckles to connect with the door. The face of the warehouse was a dark red brick, and double sets of huge, dirty-looking factory windows were spaced around the front. It was a stark, ugly building that seemed out of place among the nicer, newer houses—she was surprised the neighbourhood hadn't petitioned to have the place torn down yet. Even with the considerable space inside and the studio-like appeal, as Genevieve gazed up at it, it seemed a blemish in the perfect blue autumn sky.
Just knock, Gen, she coached herself. Yeah, the place is creepy, but Meredith is nice enough...just knock. Her parents were probably like artists or architects or something. That's what drew them to the place—it was unique. They weren't like serial killers or anything.
As Genevieve was about to knock at last, the door suddenly swung open. Instinctively, she took a step back, feeling her heart beat just a little faster.
"Hi," Meredith said brightly from the other side of the doorway, her expression uncharacteristically animated. "Glad you found the place okay."
"Uh, yeah, me too," Gen replied, still a little taken aback. The place was definitely creepy, and though she didn't know Meredith well, she wasn't used to the girl seeming so...at ease, she supposed was the feeling she got from her. In class she had been all shy, tripping over her words and keeping her head bowed most of the time. Now she stood straight—confident even—and had continued speaking even when Genevieve stopped listening long enough to ponder this odd character development.
"I thought maybe we could work in the kitchen," Meredith was saying when Genevieve tuned back in. She stepped back so Gen would have room to walk through the threshold.
Genevieve realized she was supposed to enter the place now, but she couldn't quite force her feet forward. This was crazy—she was just here to work on a project with a classmate. Why feel so much trepidation?
Meredith still smiled, and if she wondered what exactly was going through Genevieve's head right then, she didn't show it.
Stop looking like an idiot and get in there already! Gen commanded herself. Finally she forced one foot in, stepping through the framed threshold into the space.
Immediately, Genevieve questioned why she had stood out there so damn long; the place was stunning. The same dark red brick covered most of the walls, except for the one to her right, which she suspected was added to divide the space and make separate rooms, for three closed doors lined that wall. The ceiling easily reached thirty feet or so, and the space above was undisturbed by a second floor, except for a loft at the back of the room. A half wall ran around the loft, preventing any view of what lay back there, but Gen assumed it was probably a bedroom.
"I love your place," Gen commented, at last starting to feel at ease. She took a few more steps inside, and Meredith closed the door behind her.
"Thanks," Meredith replied, and stepped quickly to the left. "The kitchen is over here..."
Gen knew she should be following her hostess, but she was lost in the space for the moment. She had heard these warehouses and factories were made into apartments, but this place didn't seem to be divided at all. It was mostly one huge room, with hardwood floors and only a couch, loveseat, and armchair off to the side. In the corner was a large punching bag, as well as a smaller one against the wall, and a big, black cupboard. A strange place for a punching bag, maybe, but then this wasn't exactly a traditional house, and it didn't seem like Meredith's family had much else to fill the space with.
Other than that, the place really was bare. Gen imagined there were probably more personal items in the adjoining rooms or upstairs, but randomly wandering up there would probably seem a little too weird, so she kept her curiosity at bay.
Genevieve finally turned around and found Meredith waiting near the kitchen area. One half of the space was devoted to a long counter, fridge and stove, while the other several feet were lined with shelves that housed hundreds of books. In the centre was a long wooden table with several chairs tucked around it, reminding Gen of something one would see in a library.
"So," Gen said, sliding her bag off her shoulder and onto the strangely empty table. "Did you remember to bring the other stuff?"
For a moment confusion clouded Meredith's face, but then she nodded suddenly. "Oh, right—yeah, the Geography stuff. I left it in the other room, just a sec."
Well that was a little weird. Gen watched as Meredith took off towards one of the rooms. Maybe she had bizarre parents or something and was a little nervous having someone over. But then, if that was the case, why even suggest having Gen come over in the first place?
Genevieve left her bag on the table and wandered toward the book shelves. Most were hardcover and musty smelling, and she didn't recognize any of titles. At least half were in foreign characters and languages she didn't know. Maybe Meredith was one of those home schooled kids? The kind that could speak seventeen languages and was absolutely brilliant, but the only people she had a friendly relationship with were her parents and Jesus.
Meredith didn't seem to be on her way back anytime soon, so Genevieve left the kitchen area and strolled into the main part of the room. Straight black curtains covered some of the windows while framing others, as to only let in a bit of natural light. The place would make a great art studio—Gen was definitely getting herself a house like this someday.
On the far wall, set in the space between two windows, was a large, flat cupboard of some sort. It was only a few inches deep, about five feet tall and four feet wide, and was made of a rich, dark walnut with intricate designs around the door. Gen reached out and traced the designs, following them along the face of the cabinet until she came to the bottom corner of the left door. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Meredith still hadn't returned.
Though she wasn't normally the kind of person to go through people's things, this cabinet was right in the middle of the central area, and—she gave the door a little tug—unlocked at that. It probably contained a plasma T.V. and a state of the art sound system...
She opened the doors and took a step back. The cabinet swung wide open, revealing an inside lined with dark red velvet.
It housed dozens of weapons.
Swords were pinned in place, their blades and hilts polished and shining under a row of lights inlaid into both the bottom and the top of the cabinet. Dozens of throwing stars and small knives were fastened in rows along the bottom and on the inside of the left door.
Most disturbing were the half dozen silver handguns, all pinned in place inside the cabinet. Boxes and boxes of bullets were kept in holders on the right inside door.
The swords she could kind of understand—some people collected those things. Knives and throwing stars too. But guns? Handguns at that? The bullets weren't even locked up...this was definitely illegal, and very high on her internal scale of creepiness.
"Genevieve..."
Gen startled at the sound of Meredith behind her.
"Sorry!" she said swiftly as she turned around. "I didn't mean to..."
Her voice trailed off as her gaze settled on the eyes of the person across from her. Not those of her host, Meredith, however—eyes that were all too familiar and instantly filled her with fear. Next to Meredith stood the very same man that had been stalking Genevieve for over week, and by the smug look on his face, she knew the truth of the situation...
He was expecting her.