Paranormal After Dark

by Rebecca Hamilton

  I open my eyes and blink several times. The stranger is gone.

  Within seconds, I’m on my feet and racing away. My footsteps echo louder than my heartbeat. The man—I hadn’t heard him leave. It’s as if he vanished.

  At the next intersection, I spy a broken down truck parked a block away. To avoid it, I hang a left. The stench of the sewers and fermenting vomit churn my stomach. A rat scurries past my foot. I shriek. I have to get out of here.

  Please, dear Lord, help me find a way home.

  The wind picks up, howling eerily, and blows to the right. Not having a better idea, I change course, so I don’t have to walk into the gust. Several times, the wind alters direction, and I always avoid heading into it.

  A minute later, the surroundings are still unfamiliar, so I pray again.

  Just then, the cloud moves, and moonlight bathes the world below. When I stand on tiptoes, I spy a familiar site several streets away—the steeple of my church.

  With a sigh of relief and a quick prayer of thanks, I hurry home. I wish I could pray and ask God for more information about my parents, but He never answers those types of prayers. I discovered that years ago, when I prayed for the answers to a test I forgot to study for, a test I ended up barely passing.

  Fifteen minutes later, I climb my porch steps, never happier to see the worn front door.

  Before I can reach for the doorknob, Mom opens it and envelopes me into a tight hug. “There you are. I was worried sick! I was about to call the Fullers. What happened? And you walked home? Why didn’t you get a ride?”

  I stand motionless in her embrace. A waft of her lilac perfume assaults me. “I’m fine. It’s just…”

  “Just what, honey?”

  My throat’s too tight to talk.

  Mom stiffens then hugs me again. “You had me so scared.”

  I refuse to return her hug. As much as I am upset with her, it’s a huge relief to be home.

  “Did you have fun at least?” she asks.

  “Yep.” Once I stopped focusing so much on myself.

  She gestures to the dining room table. Great. She wants to sit and talk awhile.

  I slouch in a seat and stifle a yawn. More than anything I want to see what’s in the box. Might not be a smart idea to look through it while Mom’s home though.

  “How is Vince doing?” Mom looks at me pointedly.

  “Same old, same old.” I pick an imaginary crumb off the tan-colored tablecloth to avoid the teasing look I’m sure is on her face.

  “He still hasn’t asked you out yet?”

  “Mo-om. You know I don’t think of him that way.” I hate it when she brings this up.

  “I wish you would. He’s a nice boy, loves his mom. He’d treat you right.” She wags a finger at me.

  “Not gonna happen.” Mom’s good friends with the Fullers and got it into her head that Vince and I should start dating. We’re friends. Never thought of him as anything more than that.

  “What about Brian?”

  I wrinkle my nose. “He’s not my type.”

  “Oh, so now you have a type?”

  She’s like a piranha when she hones in on something. Sinks her teeth into it and never lets it go. Normally I don’t mind. “Why do you want me to have a boyfriend so badly?”

  Mom reaches over and pats my hand. There’s compassion in her eyes. No matter what the circumstances of my birth, she loves me. I don’t doubt that.

  “I just want you to be happy. Are you?”

  After a slight hesitation, I say, “Of course.”

  “Then that’s all that matters to me.”

  Suddenly, I’m not quite so tired anymore. “Mom, why do you hardly ever go to church?”

  She blinks rapidly. “Sometimes I’m tired. I know that’s no excuse, but—”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  “Of course! Where is this coming from? Do you want me to go with you more often?”

  “Do you think witches can use magic? Or do spells?” I hold my breath, willing to bet she’ll fail my test.

  She crosses her arms then relaxes with a short chuckle. “Is this stemming from that silly project? I believe in God, not magic, not witches. My soul is safe.”

  But after a moment, she touches the side of her neck.

  Likely story. Mom always touches her neck when she lies to Aunt Martha about how delicious her meatloaf is.

  So Mom really does believe in that garbage. And she isn’t willing to tell me the truth. Okay, it’s not surprising she’s keeping that magic crud from me, but why didn’t she just raise me as her niece? Why lie about that?

  She failed the first test. Time for test number two.

  “We were talking about genetics in class the other day.” Avoiding eye contact, I tap my fingers on the table. I’m not lying—I’m testing the water, seeing if she’ll tell me anything. “I was wondering where I got my long fingers from.”

  I lift my gaze to see Mom look at her own short, pudgy fingers. “Your father,” she says.

  She doesn’t touch her neck, although she lifts her right shoulder, her head tilted toward it. I can’t remember Dad’s fingers, but I recall how his scruff used to tickle my cheek when he kissed me and how he used to sing all the time.

  Her eyes grow wet. “Richard. He died too young. He always saved for tomorrow, too invested in the future to actually live his life. But you… promise me you’ll always live for today, no matter what tomorrow may bring.”

  “I promise.” It’s almost a question.

  “Enjoy life. You never know how much longer you’ll have.”

  It means so much to her. “I promise,” I echo, this time with a little more feeling.

  She wipes her tears away. “You know, you never did tell me what you wanted for your birthday.”

  I try to smile. “I just want to spend my actual birthday with… my mom.” A lump forms in my throat, and I stumble over the last two words. The desire to say “my birth mother” almost unravels me.

  “Your buttering up skills have improved over the years. Remember how you used to throw tantrums because I wouldn’t get you a certain doll—”

  “It was the Barbie kitchen set. I used to cry myself to sleep.”

  “Money wasn’t easy to come by back then. I never deprived you, did I?”

  Only of the knowledge that you’re my aunt, not my mom.

  “Of course not. I had a wonderful childhood,” I say, and I do mean it.

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Marian. My mother. How different would my childhood have been if Marian survived the crash?

  A sudden chill has me shivering, and I can’t push this off any longer. “Mom.” My voice cracks. “I need to show you something.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I yank out the photo—the first time I’m not gentle with it—and shove it into her hand. “I want my present to be a talk. About her. Marian Wynter. She’s my mother, isn’t she?”

  Aunt Patricia drops it onto the table as if it burned her. “Where did you find that? I thought… And how do you know her name?” Her voice is low, almost a whisper, thick with emotions—despair, dread, sadness. She looks… defeated. “You’re very much your mother’s child,” she murmurs, shaking her head as if in disbelief. “You look just like her.” She covers her face with her hands. “I-I want you to know I was going to tell you eventually.”

  “When?” I flinch at the coldness in my tone. Please let me know what to say so I don’t hurt her.

  “On your eighteenth birthday.” Aunt Patricia places her hands on the table. There’s hurt in her eyes, pain of a different sort than the kind I’m feeling. “I… It’s not that I didn’t think you were ready, it’s just…”

  “I’m Crystal Wynter.”

  She winces and inhales deeply. “Yes, that’s your birth name. Your mother was a very religious woman. She prayed all the time. So kind and caring, completely devoted to Daniel, her husband. Richard and Marian were siblings.”

  “So yo
u’re my aunt.” I rest my elbow on the table, my hand cradling my chin.

  “Yes, but I do love you as if you are my own.” She smiles sadly.

  I know this is true, but I refuse to back down and point to the picture. Silence falls between us, heavy and oppressive like a thick fog. I break it first. “‘Was.’“

  “I’m sorry?” Some of the pain etched into the lines on her face is replaced with confusion.

  “You said my… birth mother… was a religious woman.”

  “Yes. She died in a car crash.”

  I retrieve the photo and run my thumb over my mother’s face. The picture’s old and worn, cracked and bent, but I have every inch of it memorized. It’s a perfect picture.

  So far, everything Patricia told me I already knew to be true. Time for uncharted territory. “And my father? Daniel Wynter?” Let me be wrong. Let him be alive somewhere.

  Her eyes fill with tears. “I’m sorry. I… You caught me completely off guard. I wasn’t expecting this tonight.”

  “Is he alive? Can I meet him?” I can’t contain my growing excitement. Please, dear Lord, let her agree to a meeting.

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. He died while your mom was still pregnant with you.”

  I slouch. My stomach muscles tighten as if I’ve been sucker punched. My father never even laid eyes on me. “How?”

  “He had cancer.”

  Now I understand why Vince lashes out at God. The injustices of the world are sometimes too cruel to handle.

  “Daniel was an architect,” she added. “One day, he was working, and a brick hit his head. He was fine, but during the tests the hospital ran, they diagnosed him with cancer.” She pauses then shakes her head. “I don’t remember what kind. They started treatment right away until he decided no more. He lived only one more month after that.”

  “How many months pregnant was she when he stopped treatment?”

  She looks down at the table. “I don’t know.”

  “Think.” I lean forward in my seat, the table digging into my chest.

  “Um…”

  She’s stalling. “Please, Patricia.”

  A tear trickles down her cheek. “I’m your mom.”

  The hurt look on her face cuts into me like a knife. Even so, I correct her, “You’re my aunt.”

  Her hand covers her mouth and muffles her words. “Your mom was three months pregnant when—”

  “When he decided I wasn’t worth fighting the cancer for.” I want to lash out and scream and rage and cry.

  “Oh, honey, that’s not true.” She reaches over to hold my hand, but I shift back in my seat, increasing the space between us. “Even if he continued treatment, he only had three more months at the most. He still wouldn’t have lived long enough.”

  My vision grows blurry. “He could have tried. People live beyond their life expectancies all the time.”

  “I don’t think so, but I know he would have loved you.”

  I don’t want to talk about him anymore. “Tell me about my… Marian.”

  She gives the tiniest of smiles. “Marian worked as a Catholic school teacher and taught second grade. Her favorite part was getting the kids ready to receive their First Holy Communion. She loved her students as if they were her own. She would have been an amazing mom.” Her voice drops to a whisper.

  “It’s because you left me alone in the house,” I say softly as I pick up the photo. “I never meant to… I never would have found out otherwise. Why did you finally give in?” I dropped hints for months that she could leave me in the house by myself. Always a no until one day it wasn’t.

  Patricia shrugs. She looks worn. Tired. Drained. “I don’t know.” She bites her lower lip. The gesture makes her seem younger. “You’ll think it’s… well… It was something I felt I had to do. Like someone told me to…”

  I gasp and clasp my hands together. The photo bends slightly, and I place it on the table again. “Do you think—”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I know how close you are to him, and I wish I was too. Maybe it was him. I don’t know.”

  My elation dissipates. What if she’s only saying this because she thinks it’s what I want to hear?

  I search her face for clues for honesty or deceit. How could we have grown so far apart in such a short amount of time?

  She brushes her dyed hair back from her shoulders. Her natural brown is a much lighter shade than my dark chocolate coloring.

  My gaze falls to the picture. The resemblance to my mother is striking… and eerie. It was too exact… almost unnatural. I don’t just look like my birth mother… I am her.

  A crash of thunder rumbles, and I jump.

  “What’s wrong?” Patricia asks.

  “The thunder startled me.”

  She glances out the window at the lovely evening.

  I flush. I must have been mistaken.

  Another silence descends upon the room, and we sit there for a long time. I want to cry. My worst fear came true when I learned my father was also dead, but to learn he’d given up is unforgivable.

  “Why?” I whisper.

  Evidently Patricia knows, or suspects, what I’m referring to because she says, “They placed their faith in God and prayed for a miracle.”

  “Well, they didn’t get one.” I sound so much like Vince. All I want to go is run out of the house and go to his, to talk to him about all of this. If anyone can understand how I’m feeling right now, it’s him.

  “Yes, they did.”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “They had you.” Aunt Patricia blinks several times and covers her mouth with her hands. Her face is serene, almost peaceful, when she moves them away. “Your mother was infertile, just like me. And your father, the cancer treatment, that could have made him just as infertile. So you being conceived, that was their miracle.”

  “I was a miracle baby?” I’m dumbfounded, almost numb. The rage, the anger, it all melts away.

  “Yes.” Tears stream down her face.

  I run around the table and hug her. “Thanks… for… Mom.”

  She cries harder, and I sob too.

  Chapter 4

  MOM’S STILL IN her pajamas, eating an omelet, when I walk downstairs in my black-and-white wraparound dress. I know it’s awful, that I should want her to go to church with me, but I’m glad she’s not coming.

  The service is nice, the music lovely, but even here, in my special place, I can’t concentrate. When I shake Father Joseph’s hand afterward, he asks, “What’s troubling you, my child?”

  I wince inwardly. “I’m sorry, Father.”

  “Is something bothering you?”

  Father Joseph has been our parish priest since before I was born. I do want to talk to him about Marian and Patricia, but not when other people an overhear us.

  “Are you still praying every day?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say a little guiltily. I do pray every day but only when I need things.

  And he knows my praying habits. “Do you remember to thank Him?”

  “I try to. I’m fine, Father. Don’t worry about me.”

  He smiles. “Of course I will.”

  With a heavy heart and my head low, I exit the building. To my shock, a familiar blue Mustang is waiting out front. “Get in,” Bri calls.

  I climb in. “Thanks for the ride.”

  Giggling, Bri floors it. “Hold on tight!”

  I rush to buckle my belt. “Did you go to Mass?”

  “Nah. Haven’t gone since my birthday.”

  When her parents stopped forcing her to go.

  A minute later, I’m laughing until I’m snorting. She’s the only one who makes me laugh hard enough to do that. I’m way too happy to bring up anything concerning Marian and Patricia.

  Brianna turns on the radio and fiddles with the dial until she finds a rock station. She sings along, slightly off key. Before it ends, she pulls up in front of Lydia’s house and grabs a folder from the backseat. “We’ll only b
e here for a second. We’re doing a project together, and I have to give her my research. Wanna go say hi?”

  “Why not?”

  We climb out, she knocks on the door, and we walk inside. It’s dark. Then the light comes on, and there’s a loud chorus of “Surprise! Happy birthday!”

  I gasp and cover my mouth. “Thank you?” I’m so shocked it comes out as a question.

  My mom steps forward to hug Brianna and me. “Weren’t expecting this, were you?” Her face lights up.

  For right now, everything between us melts away. “Not at all!”

  “Happy early birthday.” Mom kisses my cheek.

  The Hall’s huge living room has been transformed. Black and red balloons blanket the floor; matching streamers hang from the ceilings. A black tablecloth with red roses covers the dining room table, a wide assortment of food on it, as well as black plates, red napkins, and red plastic silverware. Balloons jump up and down as I walk around them to give my friends hugs.

  I laugh and enjoy myself, and the food. The veggie dip’s amazing, tangy but sweet, a new flavor Brianna’s been raving about. There’s chili, beef barbeque, potato and pasta salad, regular salad, and more. Similar fare to the cookout, but I could eat this kind of food seven days a week.

  Lydia slides over to me. “Happy?” she murmurs.

  “Yes.” I glance over my shoulder at Mom, who’s talking to Bri’s mom a few feet away.

  “Bri thought about having it at her place, but I volunteered to host at the last second. Felt right.” She shrugs.

  “It’s amazing. You’re amazing.” I grin.

  Bri saunters over, as proud as a peacock. “Cake or presents first? The birthday girl gets to decide.”

  “Cake, of course!” I laugh.

  Vince brings it out and places it on the coffee table in front of the couch. I gasp. My face is on the cake, an exact likeness.

  After everyone sings loudly and slightly off-key and I blow out the candles, I cut myself a slice. “Mmm.” I close my eyes. Moist and beyond fresh, the cake is the best Brianna ever made. “You really outdid yourself.”

  “I try.” She tosses her hair back then cuts up the rest of the cake. While Lydia finds out who wants ice cream with their cake, Vince delivers the guests their desserts.