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Chapter Four
A bitter wind rustled Genevieve's long dark skirt
and blew a thin layer of snow over the toes of her boots. The air held
that kind of cold that can't be stopped by layers of clothing or good
circulation or a nearby fire—it gets into a person's bones and takes up
residence there, ignoring all attempts at evicting it. Genevieve felt that
cold now, standing at the top of a snowy hill, looking down at the worn
trail that wound throughout the village far below. Snow capped the log
houses of the village, so white that when the bright midday sun hit them
it was near blinding.
On the snow in front of her were two
blue-grey shadows, one hers and one belonging to the person who stood
silently to her right. Wind whipped at the hair and skirts of both
shadows, moving the tresses and fabric in unison.
"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, and 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 some times 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.
© 2006 Skyla Dawn Cameron
Reader discretion advised.
At some point there will be sex, violence, coarse language, and mature themes (if there hasn't been already).
Not for readers under 18.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 2.5 License.
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