Her Silent Shadow: A Gripping Psychological Suspense Collection

by Edwin Dasso

  Find & Follow Lucinda

  PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLERS

  A Year in the Life of Leah Brand

  A Year in the Life of Andrea Coe

  A Year in the Life of Deidre Flynn

  FICTION

  Amie – an African Adventure

  Amie and the Child of Africa

  Amie Stolen Future

  Amie Cut for Life

  Amie Savage Safari

  Samantha (Amie backstories)

  Ben (Amie backstories)

  MEMOIRS

  Walking over Eggshells

  Truth, Lies and Propaganda

  More Truth, Lies and Propaganda

  The very Worst Riding School in the World

  HUMOUR

  Unhappily Ever After

  Learn More

  www.lucindaeclarkeauthor.com

  The Beauty of Being Anonymous

  A Novel

  By

  Eric Blumensen

  Contents

  Author’s Content advisory

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  About the Author

  Author’s Content advisory

  The Beauty of Being Anonymous

  Language intensity

  No or mild profanity

  Sexuality intensity

  Possible sexual references with no details

  Violence intensity

  Violence but no gory details.

  1

  Wednesday July 31st 2:17 AM

  Sharon walked her J. C. Penney’s black two-inch heels across the reclaimed hardwood floor of her 15th story apartment in the renovated warehouse district of Canton, Ohio, still a bit unsteady from the Sauvignon Blanc at supper. Her long straight blond hair shook as she struggled in the heels, and her deep blue Jessica Howard portrait-collar A-line dress shook in rhythm with her unsteady hair. She normally didn’t drink, but Greg was handsome and new, and she just felt like relaxing a bit. She knew wine could lead her where she might not want to go, but it might also let her go where she was tempted to go with him. If he had insisted on spending the night, she wouldn’t have minded, but of course he didn’t. He was too much of a gentleman, and that was okay. She knew there would be many more nights of passion.

  Maybe she had shared too much with him, but he was so easy to talk to. Things that she kept hidden just flowed from her mouth into his ear, and he smiled at all of it. He didn’t think she was strange – he seemed to enjoy her quirks. Just yesterday, she had told him that she went to her support group on Wednesday afternoons, and another glass of wine had allowed her to tell Greg the reason.

  She remembered being so afraid to tell him, but after she did, she had no idea why she had been. He had smiled, held her hand, and told her she would be safe with him.

  And he was so intelligent. She had always thought a Blue Moon was just a brand of beer and a lyric fragment from one of her favorite Doo Wop songs, but Greg had looked up at the sky that night and said, “Sharon, tonight is a Blue Moon. That’s the second full moon in a month. You should make a wish. I bet it comes true!”

  In her apartment, her pale blue eyes caught a glimpse of the full moon through the ancient plate glass skylight and smiled. Never had she felt so – safe. She remembered other nights when she had been so afraid that she would see a man staring down at her from the breakable skylight.

  She found an opened half bottle of Bartson Estates Pinot Grigio, pulled it out of the refrigerator, and lifted the stainless steel and rubber stopper from the mouth of the bottle. She thought about getting a glass, but instead just put the bottle to her lips and drank deeply to her new life.

  She walked to the patio door that separated the balcony from her flat and slid the door open to the left. Her billowy silk evening sweater caught the evening breeze, and soft urban sounds and acrid city smells assaulted her ears and nose as she walked out onto the balcony. She leaned against the aluminum railing and looked down at Sixth Street below. During the day it bustled with boutique shoppes and fat wallet shoppers. Now it was quiet, with only an occasional car or truck whooshing by. She could just make out the cars parked at the curb. She looked over at the flat metal-enclosed fire escape and a bit of fear overcame her. It was close enough so she could easily climb from the balcony to the fire escape in case of a fire, but somebody could just as easily climb from the fire escape to the balcony. Why had she not thought of this before? A chill unrelated to the night air ran up her spine and lodged right at the base of her skull.

  Of course, the fire escape didn’t reach the ground unless one was descending, but somebody could still climb out from another apartment and onto the fire escape and then peer into any of the apartments on the other fourteen floors. Or worse.

  Sharon walked to the fire escape and looked down and then up. If somebody had been standing on the steel structure, she would not have been able to see them. Perhaps they were hiding on the patio above or below. She had a quantum of unknowing.

  She wondered why she hadn’t shared more in Group last week. Ben, the group leader, said sharing was confronting your fears and gave you power over them. She felt powerless now and took a deep drink from the wine bottle to steady her nerves. Just as she turned away, she thought she heard the fire escape creak. She had no idea what it sounded like when somebody was trying to climb or descend it quietly, but the sound she heard might have been that.

  She turned away quickly from the fire escape to run toward her patio door and lock it and get out her Smith and Wesson .38 Special stainless five shot snub-nose revolver with the pistol grip laser sights. She hadn’t spent evenings at Wertz’s firing range in the old icehouse on Sixth Street SW for nothing, and now she was a qualified sharpshooter.

  She started to run toward the open patio door but something on the other side jumped into her field of vision. A man! A man was standing between the window and the curtains of her apartment! His silhouette shone dark and evil on the glass.

  Her momentum carried her toward the open door, but she spun to her right to try to get to the fire escape and avoid the man. It was a combination of wine and fear and chronic weak ankles that caused her to lurch toward the railing. She tried to stop herself, but her arms were flailing above her head and she couldn’t get them down in time to grab the railing. She hit the railing hard with her upper abdomen and the pain caused her to double over and her upper body to thrust over the night cold aluminum bar on top of the railing. She teetered for a moment balanced perfectly on the top of the railing before the slightest of downdrafts caught her outstretched silk sweater like a sail and pulled her off balance and down toward the pavement.

  As she fell, she saw through the uprights of the railing that the man was nothing more than a silhouette stuck to the patio door. It was nothing, but why was it there? Who had put it there, and why?

  She fell slowly at first, then gravity took over and she accelerated at 32 feet per second toward the street. She still clutched the bottle of Pinot and it preceded her like a battle flag. During the next three seconds, a thousand visions crowded Sharon’s brain, but the one that lasted was Greg’s smiling face.

  The wine bottle hit the roof of the orange VW Beetle first and broke into a couple of ugly slivers, one of which sliced through Sharon’s right carotid artery a millisecond later as her weight caved the roof of the car into a shallow depression. Her blood flowed out into the cavity until it looked like she was sleeping in a large vat of iron rich body-temperature gazpacho.

  2

  Wednesday, July 31st, 1:00 PM

  A very fit woman in flesh-hugging taupe capri pants and a burgundy short sleeve V-neck knit top pulled on the brass knob of the door that lead to the basement meeting room at Blessed Savior Lutheran church in Canton, Ohio. B
etty walked her well-worn pink Asics running shoes through the doorway and her hands began to sweat as she looked at the gray cement and steel staircase leading down. Thirteen steps. Why thirteen? She hated the number thirteen. It was why she was here for the weekly meeting of Phobias Anonymous. Others in the group had said they had success confronting their fears, but every time Betty descended the steps, she felt her windpipe collapsing, her heart racing, and her sweaty hand threatening to slide off the smooth green handrail.

  She descended twelve steps and stopped. Maybe she should jump from there and not step on the thirteenth step? But, twelve steps and a jump were just thirteen in the end, so as always, she finished the steps and rushed toward the meeting room.

  She had never been the first one to a meeting and usually the room light was on and a ring of green metal folding chairs occupied the center. She felt her anxiety rise again as she scoured the wall with her hands trying to feel the light switch. Where was it?

  Another phobia or really more of a nightmare. Ever since she had been a little girl in Cleveland, she had had a recurring nightmare where things were fine until she went to flip a light switch or turn the switch on a lamp, and it didn’t light up. That’s when she knew things were not right in the world and the monster would soon be chasing her.

  “Ahhhh, help me!” erupted from her lips.

  “Betty. Betty, is that you?” a tenor male voice called from the hallway.

  “Yes, help me! I can’t find the light switch. It’s like my dream!”

  “It’s here in the hallway.” There was a soft click, then the fluorescent tubes lit up the windowless basement room. Seconds later, Ben brushed into the room, sweat pouring down his well-tanned face. His dark curly hair glistened under the light, and his brown eyes exuded kindness.

  “Thank God! Ben, you’re a savior. I’m terrified of not being able to turn the lights on. That’s one of my phobias that I have never discussed in Group.” Betty found an opened chair against the wall and sat down to collect herself and breathe.

  “It’s ok, Betty. This is a safe place. Just rest there.” Ben went to the far side of the room where the green metal chairs were stored on a rack and put three under each arm and carried them to the center of the room. Betty was waiting there for him, still breathing hard but obviously wanting to help. “Here, Betty, take this one and set it up.”

  In less than a minute, Ben and Betty had set up a circle of six chairs. “Have a seat, Betty. I’m going to go get the coffee and eats. You’ll be OK alone in here?”

  “Yes, sorry about earlier, I just…”

  “It’s OK. We can talk about it in group if you like. I need to get this set up.” Ben left the room and before he returned, the others began to file in. There was John who was terrified of public speaking and Frank who was terrified of flesh-eating bacteria.

  Ben rolled the gray plastic Rubbermaid utility cart holding the coffee and dessert tray into the room with a “Hello group!” Ben Angelo owned Angelo’s House of Pasta out on West Tuscarawas Street, or West Tusc as the locals called it. There was always a wonderful assortment of day-old Italian desserts left over from the restaurant. He rolled the cart against an empty yellow cinder block wall and plugged the large drip coffee pot into the wall outlet. He then walked over to join the growing group. The crisp white cotton shirt bulged out in the front and his abdomen hung over his dark brown belt in the beginning stages of a paunch. He ground his brown leather brogues into the floor tiles nervously as he eyed the anxious faces.

  “Welcome, everybody!” he said with a smile. I see Sharon isn’t here, but I would like to get started. Let’s start by reciting the Serenity Prayer. Frank, would you like to lead?”

  All eyes went to the heavy-set middle-aged man wearing blue nitrile gloves, a white Haz-mat coverall with tape securing the cuffs tightly to his ankles.

  OK, everybody,” Frank began as he forced words through his thick orange mask, “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can…”

  “Sharon’s dead! Sharon’s dead! The words cut though the prayer like the flaming sword of an Archangel. “She fell on a Volkswagen Beetle – one of the new ones! She was bathing in her own blood!”

  Connie, the last member of the group to arrive, ran to the center of the group of chairs where she grasped her chest, uttered an “Ahhh” and then fell toward John, the burly ex-marine.

  John straightened his six-foot frame and caught her thick torso easily. He pivoted like a dancer and directed her to his chair. “Breathe. Breathe. You are hyperventilating,” he told Connie. “Somebody get me a cold cloth for her head!” He said it like a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed instantly.

  The group descended into chattering chaos as Ben went for a cold washcloth.

  Finally, John got Connie settled down enough so she could talk to the group.

  “I saw, I saw it on Facebook,” Connie said. “Sharon Young sent me a friend request and I accepted it. There were two pictures on her profile - one a picture of Sharon like from a photo studio all beautiful and smiley. The other one, oh God, she was lying on the caved-in roof of an Orange Beetle and the cavity was filled with her blood. Her eyes were bulging out and her mouth was wide open and there was dried blood all over her teeth. She fell 15 stories from her balcony.”

  A gasp rose from the group.

  “Maybe it was a sick prank?” Frank said through the orange mask. His fingers wiggled inside the blue nitrile gloves as he talked, and his body made strange noises as the coveralls slapped against the transparent plastic cover he had draped over his chair. “Maybe Sharon will walk through that door any minute now.”

  “I heard it on WHBC news this morning,” Betty offered as she counted the number of black floor tiles between her and the door. “They didn’t mention any names, but they said a woman had died in a fall. Poor Sharon, she was so afraid of those intruders. You don’t think one of them…”

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions”, Ben said as the sweat began to flow down his face again. Death was his phobia.

  “I can’t believe you just said that!” Frank said with a shake of his head. “That wasn’t funny!” The coveralls made scrunching noises as he shook his head.

  “My God, she died under a Blue Moon. That means there are 13 full moons this year,” Betty blurted out. “That number is cursed!”

  “I don’t know what to believe!” Connie yelled. Her black spandex pants were many sizes too small and her white blouse hung on her like a sack. “Is she dead or not? For God’s sake I need to know the truth. I am losing my mind!” Connie put her hands to her buzz-cut head and pressed as if to squeeze the demons out. “What is reality?”

  “That’s what I hate about flying,” John said. “Actually, I like flying, it’s the crashing I am afraid of. That long fall from 36,000 feet, knowing at the end it’s going to be all over and if you’re lucky the crash will kill you before you burn alive strapped into your seat!”

  “For God’s sake, people” Ben shouted. “Get ahold of yourselves. Sharon may or may not be dead, but we can’t fall apart over it. Please take your seats. We’re leaving the empty one for Sharon in case she comes in late.”

  “Here it is,” Frank said as he held up his mobile. “I have the Canton Repository app on my phone.” He read from the screen, “Sharon Young of Canton, Ohio fell to her death from her balcony early this morning. Stark County Coroner Jack Fritz ruled the death a suicide. Funeral arrangements are pending with Willow Funeral Home on Raff Road SW.”

  The group fell silent. Ben knew as group leader he should say something, but he didn’t know what to say. Talking about the fear of spiders or the fear of flying had always seemed so distant, so removed from the members of the group. Now death, and perhaps horror had struck one of the group members and that fear was spreading like a virus to the others. Finally, he said, “Do we want to continue, or do we need to adjourn for today? It could be a good session as our emotions and fea
rs are right on the surface, but it could also be terrifying for some. How about we have group for those that want to stay, but for those that want to leave, I and the rest of the group understand.”

  Ben hoped they would all leave, maybe all except Betty. Betty was a young 33, a single mother who managed to support her family and stay in shape by going to the Canton YMCA near the old Meyers Lake amusement park. Ben knew it was frowned upon for group members, and especially leaders and members, to form romantic bonds, but he had been alone since home invaders had brutally killed his wife five years before. Ben had been out of town at the time – in a motel room off Route 8 in Cuyahoga Falls with a lovely pizza oven rep, and the guilt ate him up. If only he had been there at home, he might have been able to do something. As it were, the home invaders were lurking behind the shower curtain, and well, when they were through, nearly every square inch of the bathroom was covered in blood, flesh, hair, or bodily fluids.

  Now what terrified him most was a closed shower curtain. He didn’t know if he expected intruders or his wife’s angry ghost to be hiding there, but he always had to leave the shower curtain open. Always.