Insidious Nightmares

by Ellabee Andrews

  Insidious Nightmares

  Ellabee Andrews

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also By Ellabee Andrews

  By: Ellabee Andrews

  Insidious Nightmares Copyright @ 2019 Ellabee Andrews. It is illegal and piracy to copy and publish other people’s works as your own. Please don’t be that person. Nobody likes that person Cover Design by: Ellabee Andrews

  Created with Vellum

  Foreword

  Thanks so much for picking up a copy of Insidious Nightmares. I hope you laugh as much reading this as I did writing it. As always, your support means the world to me.

  1

  “Don't complain, Laurie, it's just one class. I promise we're not a bunch of hippies dancing naked beneath the moon. It's just yoga that happens to fall on Halloween. Dressing up is only a bonus to make it fun. You don't even have to do that. Just come with me. You and Benji broke up a month ago. You need to get out of the house,” Liberty says, her look of sympathy turning darker as she places her hands on her narrow hips. “And frankly, you could do with shaving your legs. You know I love you, but seriously girl, you could host a family of monkeys in those trees."

  I balk at Liberty as I glance down, ready to argue how wrong she is. Moving to roll up my pants leg to prove that my legs aren't nearly as bad as she's insinuating, I first pop my fingers into my mouth to suck off the cheese dust my cheesy snacks have left me with.

  Taking the time to savor the flavor as she snorts above me, if only to piss her off, I finish licking my fingers clean of all that artificial goodness and lift my baggy sweats. A frown crests my lips as I see that she's right.

  My legs look like I'm part teen wolf, and I'm not even sure my razor is strong enough to get the job done. Hell, I'm not even sure a weedwhacker is. My nose bunches up as my shoulders droop.

  "Fine, I'll shower, but no yoga. I'm not into that shit. Besides, don't you have to be able to fold up like a pretzel or something? The only pretzel this body likes are the ones that slide between my lips, nice and salty," I tell her, standing from my spot on the couch.

  It takes more effort than it should, likely because I've pretty much made it my home for the past month since my breakup with Benji. As I think his name, his face flashes across my mind, and I remember the way his eyes had looked as I caught him going down on his landlord.

  Betrayal had been the first emotion to course through my body, but that had soon been followed by shock, then eventually disgust. I'm not saying old people don't need lovin' too, but seeing my twenty-three-year-old boyfriend going to chow town on his seventy-year-old Russian landlady had been too much. I hadn't even stuck around for an explanation. Nothing in this world, Hades, Hogwarts, or Narnia would have made what I saw better.

  Shuddering as I try to shake away the memory of her moans as he delved into the antique theatre curtains of the crypt keeper, I sigh and meet Liberty's eyes. There is no pity to be found in my cousin and best friend though. Nothing but judging bitch face as she bunches her pert little nose at the body print I'd left on our sofa. I opened my mouth to call her on her silent attitude, but recall how supportive she's been all month and swallow my words as roughly as Benji had swallowed those cobwebs. Talk about a case of cottonmouth.

  "Please, Laurie, just do something with yourself. If not yoga, then start with that shower. Maybe go to the market? You're out of Cheetos. Don't you want some more of those?"

  "No, Liberty, I don't want Cheetos. I want... wait, actually I do want some of those, but you're right. I can't sit here and mope about that nursing home robbing bastard. Let me shower, and I'll go to yoga with you. But no essential oils. You know the last time I tried it at that health and beauty tent at the fair, the spot on my forehead it was spread across swelled up like I'd been hit with something. I'm fine without ever repeating that experience."

  The little bitch dares to snicker as she ties up her long black hair, her blue eyes dancing with humor. "Yeah, you did look like someone had slapped you in the forehead with their dick. That was funny. But no oils. I swear. All you have to do is say you're allergic. They won't force you to use it."

  Rolling my eyes, but putting my hands on my lower back to stretch, I get the nice reminder that I've not moved around much when my back lets out a crack that would make the Russian landlady envious. Of course, with Benji at her service, she may very well be more worked out than me. That thought causes the three-day-old flat soda I drank earlier to sour in my stomach.

  "Fine. I'm going. Just give me ten minutes," I start, and then think about my legs again. I look her way. "Thirty minutes."

  Her laughs turn to grumbles as I hear her begin to clean up the mess I'd made in our living room. One month has passed since my breakup and during that time, I'd done nothing but sit at home and consume diabetic inducing amounts of junk food. Thankfully, I work from home, so I hadn’t missed any days at work. Which is one of the only things I hadn't missed. According to the sweat stains on my white shirt, one shower too many had been skipped.

  Grossed out and disappointed with myself for falling into such a state that I didn't even practice proper hygiene, I resolve myself to do better. As I step under the hot spray of water in our shared shower, I promise to be better.

  If not for me, then for our couch. I'm not sure our cushions can handle another bout of me becoming sedentary.

  2

  Regret is strong as I walk down the narrow streets of our small town, population 1,408. It's so small that one can stand on one side of the main strip, yell, and people on the other side could hear it.

  The buildings are like the rest of the area, quaint, and each match with their slated roofs and scalloped siding. I can admit that it makes for a pleasant view, but having lived here my whole life, and dealt with the nightmare of having to duck down random aisles in the grocery store to avoid people I know, which is everyone, means I could use a little anonymity.

  "Hi, Father Brundle, Sister Vera," Liberty says as we pass the steeple to the only church within one hundred miles, and the older couple smile back.

  They've forgone dressing up for the holiday, which may make us the only three people in town to have done so, but even they have caved a bit to the commercialized pressure to decorate, and a few plastic black cats and pumpkins dot the perfectly manicured lawn of the two-story white church. Atop its only steeple, a large bell hangs, and as if responding to my stare, the bell begins to ring.

  "Will you two be stopping in for our morning service, Liberty? You know that today's the day the Devil tries to play his tricks. We missed you last Sunday," Father Brundle says, but I can feel his scrutinizing stare focused on me, and not my cousin he addressed. With a sigh, I turn to face the music. No one misses anything in this town.

  Yep, looking right at me. I fake a smile and at his side, Sister Vera’s kind brown eyes turn shrew. "Yes, dears, we have missed you both. At least you've made it to most services, Liberty... Laurie.... your spot in the choir has been empty for a while. Have you found another house of worship to attend? I've been worried over you ever since you and Benji separated. I'm sure that hasn't been easy."

  I grind my teeth together to keep from rolling my eyes at the nosey old woman. She knows good and damn well I haven't been going to another church because there is
no other church around. Nor does she particularly care if I'm not up in the stands singing. She's already told me I couldn't carry a tune in a bucket five miles wide. She's just wanting to dig, so I open my mouth to tell her where she can stick her self-righteous attitude.

  "Oh, of course not, Sister Vera. You know that Steinville is home. And here, where our founders Stephen and King laid the very foundation to this little church is where our loyalties lie. Laurie has just been feeling under the weather is all. We will both be back in our spots on Sunday. But right now, we have a yoga class to get to," Liberty answers, cutting her eyes at me in a warning glare as she interrupts my apt reply.

  With a sympathetic nod, Sister Vera reaches out to lay her weathered hand onto my arm. "Oh bless your heart, dear. I'm sorry that you're having such a hard time. Perhaps you will find clarity at this Sunday’s lecture. But go ahead and run along. What's good for the body isn't always good for the mind, but a little exercise never hurt anyone. You two go on and have a nice class."

  The words are spoken with an almost sickeningly sweet tone, but a note of condemnation is evident, too. With a brittle smile, I take Liberty’s hand and begin to tug her away before she can extend the conversation, or before Sister Vera can think of anything else to say ‘bless my heart’ to. To an outsider, the sentiment sounds kind, but any southern woman knows it for what it truly is.

  ‘Bless your heart' is akin to someone pointing out a three-legged dog, with patches of fur missing, as it tries to snap at its stubby tail. It never reaches that tail, and yet it keeps trying because it just can't grasp that it will never succeed. In the South, that type of blessing is never one you want to receive.

  As we move down the street, passing by Annabelle Rice’s antique shop, I peek over my shoulder as a shiver ghosts down my spine. Father Brundle may have been mostly silent during our exchange, but his gaze is heavy as he watches us go. Combine that with his slender figure dressed in an all-black suit, and the sneer on his lips, giving him an almost bug-like appearance, is the icing on a spooktacular ‘you're going to burst through Hell's gates' cupcake. But hey, at least I have that sinfully good icing to look forward to.

  “Uh, Laurie, don’t look now, but uh…”

  I turn from our local clergyman as we take a corner beside Poe’s pharmacy, ignoring the old man’s pet bird. He’s had it for as long as I can remember, and it's always there, watching passersby through the bay window inside its cage. Liberty thinks it's cute, but I've always been unnerved by its black beady eyes tracking my motions. With a shudder, I turn from that feathered face and notice that Liberty’s pale ivory complexion has gone to Casper shades white.

  Unsure of what could cause such a reaction, I follow her thin, pointed finger to across the street, and almost trip over my steps.

  Dressed in jeans with red suspenders that aren’t necessary with his too-tight pants, Benji is smiling broadly as he holds the door of Lovecraft's Ice Cream Emporium. His eyes are bright, shaggy blonde hair moving gently under his black fedora as a light breeze blows, and doesn't look as if the month since our breakup has affected him at all.

  Coming through the door, the object of his affection and moving at the speed of snail, is Ms. Volkov. As she takes her measured steps, her black loafers keeping her steady on the cobblestones of the walkway, she glances up and meets my stare.

  Hair dyed an almost bluish-grey color, and lips painted scarlet, her flapper dress looks out of place on a face that could be anyone's doting grandmother. But as our gazes lock and a cruel smile twists her wrinkled lips, I know that her last name, one that means wolf in Russian, is fitting. Because that's what the old hag is.

  She may look like sweet, but she's like the wolf in Little Red's grandma's clothing and I want nothing more than to be petty, and grab her cane and run off with it down the road. Make Benji’s cheating ass have to carry her home.

  A light pressure on my hand ruins my perfect vision of how that scenario would play out, and my gaze pulls away from the two as they merrily begin to walk the other way. It lands on where Liberty is watching me with a concerned look in her amber eyes.

  “You’re better than him. Better than them both, Laurie. Don’t let it get to you, ok? You just started–”

  “I know Liberty,” I say, interrupting what I’m sure is about to be an epic pep talk, but I don’t need it this time. I try to make my conviction clear in my voice. “I’m not going to run back to hide in our apartment and spend the rest of my life eating powdered cheese snacks and drinking old soda. I promise. I just wasn’t expecting to see them so soon. Stupid isn’t? Seeing as today is Halloween and everyone and their mother will be gathering in town for the Hallowed Festival. Let’s just forget we saw them and get this class over. I’m good.”

  Liberty searches my gaze for a minute as if trying to decide if she believes me, and I can’t help but smirk. With her dressed in a frilly, high-waisted dress, that has a large bow tied tightly around her narrow waist, and her makeup done to resemble that of a doll, it’s hard to take her seriously, and I find myself smiling despite seeing Benji and his sugar granny. When I do, so does she.

  “Ok. Good. Let’s get to class then. Ms. Jackson hates it when people arrive late and purposefully leaves the air off to punish us. Believe me, you don’t want to experience ‘hot yoga’ her way. Some smells are better left unsampled.

  I laugh with Liberty as we near the studio, hoping she’s not serious about the last part. And with the trees cast in shades of oranges and reds, and with a refreshing breeze dancing across my face, I feel more like myself than I have in a long time.

  This may just be a good Halloween, after all.

  3

  “I hate you. You’re the worst cousin ever, and I hope you get permanent split ends and a wart on your nose.”

  My words are breathier than they should be. Or strained may be a better term, but it’s all I can get out as my feet are currently stuck behind my head.

  We’ve been in this class almost an hour, and Ms. Jackson, the evil woman that she is, promises this is the last pose, but I don’t believe a thing that comes out of her Richard Simmons costumed mouth. She’d forced me into this pose with fake encouragement and cheery smiles, and if I get stuck like this, I’m paying for a hitman to off her.

  At my side, face relaxed, Liberty rolls her eyes. Unlike me, she has tiny breasts that are barely pushed to her chin in this twisted shape. Me? My DD’s are like two airbags that released suddenly and smacked me in the face. Perkiest they’ve been in years, but pretty sure they will be the cause of my smothering.

  "Don't be dramatic, Laurie. You love me. And we're almost done. After this, we get to do a cool down. You'll like that part. All you have to do is lie there and breathe. You should have that mastered after your month-long staycation.

  If I could reach her, I'd smack the little shit, but as it stands, I just satisfy myself with plotting all the ways I'll make her pay. Switching her low-fat pumpkin spice creamer with the generic brand is where I'll start.

  “And breathe out. Five, four, three, two, one. Very good, class. You may now return to the resting position as we work on some breathing exercises. I'll come around as you relax, and place a healing stone upon your head. Do not fret, as these will help you release the negative energies that have built inside of you. And as a special treat, I've imported some new essential oils. These are imbued with water from Greenland glaciers and are said to contain similar properties of the fountain of youth. As I've yet to try it, we shall all see if that's so today."

  Ms. Jackson claps her hands together in delight, and while everyone else smoothly releases there feet and lowers their legs to their mats, I'm not quite as graceful. It takes both Liberty and a girl named Liz, who's dressed as one of the Ninja Turtles, to unlock my swollen ankles and release them from behind my head. When they do, my feet drop to the floor with a loud thump that has everyone in class turning to glance my way.

  "Sorry," I mumble to their raised brows. Once they turn away, I fal
l backward to the floor and raise my middle finger at Liberty where she snickers on her purple mat.

  While I learn to breathe now that I'm not dying by tit-smothering, Ms. Jackson makes her way around the class placing oil-covered stones on the heads of those gathered.

  My nose bunches as I recall how my head had burned the last time it came into contact with the oils, and I'm tense as she nears my mat.

  When she reaches Liberty, I hear her mumble something softly but can't make out her words beneath the slow, tranquil music she plays. Or, it's what Ms. Jackson claims is music with the trickling water and bird calls. I'm sure some people like it. Probably the same ones that like oily rocks on their heads.

  When a shadow falls across my mat, I realize I haven't been paying attention and have to throw my hand up to keep the stone from being placed on my head.

  I jerk so suddenly that I knock my hand into Ms. Jackson's and the rock is sent flying to the side. The muffled oomph, tells me someone's body stopped its procession.

  Horrified at what I’ve done, and trying not to wilt beneath the instructor’s glare, I quickly jump to my feet and speed walk toward the exit, dodging the legs of those still lying on the floor, and not bothering to gather my mat up.

  Yet, just as I go to escape out the door, an odd sound reaches my ears, and I slowly swivel on my feet to see what it is. Nothing about the scene before me makes sense, and I roll my eyes as I glare at them all, lingering on Liberty.