Within Temptation (7-chapter excerpt)

Chapter 4: Beware Of Blondes Bearing Rock Salt

CHAPTER FOUR

Beware Of Blondes Bearing Rock Salt

--TRACE--

I’d warned her. Told her straight out to drop the subject. All I’d wanted was a ride and an explanation for what she’d done. I’d never intended to get into a deep conversation, not with my soul still gushing blood. But she had to press me, goad me, so I chewed her up and spat her out.

Maybe now she’d leave me the hell alone.

Stalking down Jefferson Boulevard with the wind at my back and pain in my ribs, I tried to shove Shannon out of my mind, but I was still boiling mad. ‘Let’s make amends,’ she’d told me. ‘Let’s bridge gaps.’ Screw her gaps; screw her prick of a fiancé and her olive branches. What a joke. She’d cowered in the limo like I was a monster. No wonder she’d sent the letter.

I scared the hell out of her.

When she’d penned the thing, she was an adult, capable of making her own choices and living with the fallout. Whatever she wrote swayed the board’s decision to deny my parole last year. The consequences set a tragic chain of events into motion, events that would haunt me forever.

I ducked my head against the lashing wind and zigzagged across the street to my childhood home. The pillowcase I’d slung over my shoulder seemed to weigh a ton as I took the porch steps, going slowly because my knees were shaking. So were my hands. This place was my greatest nightmare. The house of cards built with cement and brick.

 ‘Stare the monster down,’ Doc Rosen had said.

I sighed. “Easier said than done, old man.”

It was a typical cracker box; probably still swarming with cockroaches and an equally impressive rodent population. The battered screen door smacked my butt as I fished the chain from my pocket. I shook lint balls off the key and unlocked the door, giving it a gentle nudge with my foot. The rusty-hinged block of wood wailed open. It reminded me of the muted squeals the sows on Bisabuelo’s farm used to make while birthing.

Pale light spilled in from a long hallway that led off to the kitchen. I took a whiff, and my stomach rumbled. The scent of home cooking softened the visual. Maybe Bev had left me some dinner. I flipped the wall switch for the ceiling lamp, but nothing happened. Burned-out bulb, no doubt.

Even in the dimness, the room looked homely. Like fruitcake, cockroaches, and taxes, Mama’s patchwork furniture—complete with plastic slipcovers—would endure forever. Add a maze of water spots on the ceiling and an ugly orange carpet, and you had the makings for a bass-ackwards funhouse in hell.

I eased down on the sofa expecting to feel grief or even anger, but it wasn’t there. Maybe Doc Rosen was right about facing the monster, because the knot in my gut had slackened. If I could survive Gainstown, surely I could endure Gary Dawson’s House of Horrors.

But what about the basement?

A chill rippled over me when I glared at the basement door. Funny. I didn’t remember it looking that damn creepy. The wood appeared worn in some spots, splintered in others, and where the bottom met the floor, two inches of darkness reached out from beneath.

I looked away, shelved the thought altogether. These were temporary digs. Aside from my share of the money in Mama and Daddy’s retirement account, the one good thing the old man had done was deed me this house. Ten-and-a-half months of rent money from a revolving door of tenants—a little over six thousand—along with whatever I could net from the sale of this hell hole, would further my plans. I’d satisfy the conditions of my parole, deal with the situation with my brother, and get this place in shape for the market. In two months, six tops, I’d start on my BA, and later I hoped to launch my own business.