Unhappily Never After (Neverland Archives II) (ON HOLD)

Chapter 2 | Phantom

Coffee.

The thought drags me out of bed nose first, eyes still squeezed tightly shut. I wrap the warm comforter around myself and stumble into the kitchen, stomach rumbling and mouth watering. I'm only halfway awake, peering out at the world through narrowed slits, so it's no surprise that I'm getting a cup out of the cupboard before I realize: I live alone.

So who made coffee?

I set the cup down carefully, rub my eyes with both hands as the comforter falls to the tiled floor. Then, slowly, I turn and look at the Keurig machine. It's on, filled with water, and the little blue lights are blinking. There's already a cup beneath the spout--it's one of my favorites, yellow and big, with a painting of Belle and roses on it--filled almost to the brim with steaming Black Silk Folgers. 

Beside it, the regular Mr. Coffee machine is also on, and the gentle rumbling sound it makes as a black stream drops into the glass pot is as familiar as breathing to me.

But I didn't turn either one on when I got home last night. I didn't even put coffee grounds in the filter because I was so tired that I couldn't see straight--four hours of listening to Stacy ramble and rant will do that to a person. And now, it's--I glance at the clock on the microwave and blink in utter shock--it's 3 AM, a mere two hours after I got home and crashed into bed, still in my clothes.

Which, I realize with a jolt as I feel the cool air against my bare skin, are gone now.

My heart begins to beat louder in my chest and my palms get that sweaty, icky feeling that means something is making me nervous. I dart to the light switch and flip it up, flooding the kitchen and living room--connected with a large archway--with yellow light. I'm blinded for a moment, standing here feeling awkward in my own home, even though I run around in just my bra and underwear all the time.

When my vision clears, I look around suspiciously, snatching a spatula off the kitchen counter before I move into the living room. I'm not sure what good it will do me if there is someone here, but logically speaking--and I have to think logically or I'm going to start freaking out--if there is someone, they're not here to hurt me.

Because obviously, if they wanted to hurt me, they'd have done that before removing my clothes, tucking me into bed, and fixing me coffee.

Or maybe they're psycho. Maybe they get off on removing girls' clothing while we sleep and maybe they made the coffee for themselves.

Okay. Logical thinking = bad idea. Bad. Idea. Gwendolyn.

I take deep breaths, trying to calm down as I move from the living room into the bathroom and down the hall of my little apartment, back to my room, flipping lights on all the way.

When I'm done, I search the whole place again.

And again.

But there's no one here. I'm alone. On my own. By myself.

Mr. Coffee dings, telling me that it's finished brewing. The warm, tangy scent of coffee still fills my apartment, and it's a nice smell, a nice feeling--or would be, if not for the fact that it didn't originate with me.

And--I feel something at the back of my leg, the hairs on my neck prickle and I whirl--but there's nothing there. I'd have sworn something soft touched my left calf but there's nothing...

I'm starting to get really weirded out, starting to freak out, in fact. I can feel the panic rising but it's too early for this, and what am I supposed to do anyway? Run out into the streets in my Aladdin bra and matching cheekies? Call Stacy?

I don't think so.

This is my house, and I will not be chased out of it by some phantom!

So I plant my hands on my slightly chubby hips--I really need to get back to the gym someday--and toss my chocolate curls out of my eyes defiantly. 

"Okay, Mr. Phantom Ghost Whoever-You-Are, show yourself right now before I unleash the fury of my little friend here!" I say, sternly, as I wave the spatula threateningly at thin air.

Immediately, I feel utterly ridiculous, and I burst out laughing. "Such wow, Gwen... so stupid..." I mutter to myself, facepalming. I mean, how idiotic did I sound just now, really? I shake my head at myself, all my panic and fear forgotten.

I straighten, looking around with a rueful expression. "This, Gwendolyn McKinnith, is what you get for staying up past your bedtime." I tell myself in an 'adult' tone of voice, just so I can hear something in the sudden, unnerving silence.

Then, I walk back into the kitchen, because there's coffee there in complete honesty, I very well could've made it in my sleep. And even if I didn't, who cares?

It's coffee.

It's also 3 AM and I should really be going back to sleep, not filling my body with more caffeine... but again, who cares?

It's coffee.

This is probably a bad attitude. If there's a murderer in my house, this attitude will get me killed. Especially if they're some weird murderer who likes to kill people by putting poison in their coffee that they've nicely made for them.

But it's 3 AM. I'm running on previously active--now dormant if not gone entirely--coffee fumes and two measly hours of sleep. If someone wants to kill me, they can just go ahead and get it over with 'cause if the Bible is to be believed, death is just like sleeping and I could really use some shut eye.

With a small grin at myself--one that is meant to push away the anxiety clawing at my heart, but doesn't really--I grab my Belle coffee cup and move it away from the Keurig. A healthy dose of whole milk, a spoonful of sugar, and a dash of caramel syrup along with a spot of hazelnut creamer later, I stir the mixture into perfection and take a long, deep drink.

It's hot and sweet and creamy with the perfect undertone of coffee taste, and I let out a long, satisfied sigh when I lower the mug from my wet lips. "Perfect." I say, smiling widely. 

And that's when I notice it.

The Book of Unhappy Endings.

It's sitting on the Formica, on the little window ledge above the sink, the one that you can stick your arm through and touch the front door 'cause it's just right there.

But I don't remember putting it there... in fact, I don't remember taking it out of my laptop case. So what is it doing there?

I set my cup down and walk over, pick the heavy tome up off the ledge. It's light in my hands despite its weight--it's weird. I can feel how heavy it is, but I don't have any trouble lifting it.

It's like when... when... but I can't think of an analogy. There isn't one. There isn't anything that this is like because this is unlike anything I've ever seen or felt before. It's... magic. It must be.

Carefully, reverently, I set the book down on the beige counter top and run my fingers over its worn leather cover. Then, with sudden determination, I slide my fingers under the lip and pull it open.

Everything goes black.