FS-S1-Kobo

by S. K. Falls

  FEVERED SOULS.

  Copyright © 2013 by S. K. Falls

  www.skfalls.com

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical

  events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons,

  living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Art by Cormar Covers

  Interior Formatting/Design: IceyDesigns

  Proofread by: Jacinda Darrell Owens

  What's wrong with you, with us,

  what's happening to us?

  Ah our love is a harsh cord

  that binds us wounding us

  and if we want

  to leave our wound,

  to separate,

  it makes a new knot for us and condemns us

  to drain our blood and burn together.

  - Love, Pablo Neruda

  Eden, North Carolina, my hometown. There couldn’t be a more perfect version of my own personal hell than if the devil had designed it himself.

  I watched the encroaching wall of trees through my cracked windshield, a knot of sadness and anger blocking my throat, inhibiting my ability to swallow.

  In spite of my best intentions, I was back, breaking every promise I’d ever made to myself. I couldn’t believe I was returning to this place after only four years.

  Eden was one of those bucolic, idyllic towns people in the big city imagine when they dream of retiring to the country. Bordered by mountains on one side, flush with greenery and trees and every kind of wildlife, Eden was something out of a fairytale.

  I hated it.

  Just seeing the cloud-choked winter sky pressing down on me—encasing me in a sphere of gray and green—brought back the old depression, that sense of oppression and helplessness. I tried to suck in a deep breath; a difficult task when the air in my car didn’t work and I couldn’t roll down my window.

  I pulled over at Eden’s unofficial scenic overlook and got out to stretch my legs. The overlook was a flat piece of land, just before you got to town proper, which rose up over the valley beneath. The mountainside under me was covered in soft, dense vegetation, like a carpet of green. Across the way, trees and fog clung to the sloping land.

  See? It’s not so bad here, Cara, I thought desperately. It’ll be a nice break from Chicago’s pollution. And Thanksgiving’s coming up. It’s good to be home for the holidays. I shakily inhaled the wet, chilly air and let my eyes wander for just another minute. One more minute to collect myself before I was officially and irrevocably Back Home.

  When the first freezing drops of rain splashed against my skin, I squared my shoulders and turned to make my way back to the car. But a patch of bloodstained white fur, down a few feet from where I was standing, caught my eye.

  Was it an animal in trouble? Had it been hit?

  “Hey.” I raised my voice over the wind, but it lay there, still, most of its mass sheltered by bushes. I pursed my lips and made a loud kissing sound, but it still didn’t move. Sighing, I stepped over the rickety fence toward where it lay. I was fairly good on Eden’s hills; I’d grown up playing mountain goat with my dad, the unofficial wild animal rescuer of the town. It was his voice I was hearing now, telling me to check on the animal, just in case there was a chance it was still alive, that it needed help.

  Kneeling by the fur, I pushed a large frond out of the way to get a better look. I stared for a long moment, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. “What the....”

  Several dozen animals were scattered around in the large clearing past the thick bushes.

  The animals—rabbits, deer, raccoons, and gophers, of what I could recognize—had scorch marks all over their bodies, the parts that were still intact. They’d been ripped apart limb from limb, and the thick, choking smell of rotting flesh curled into my nostrils.

  When my body caught up to my brain, I stood up and backed away fast, a hand clapped over my gaping mouth. Swallowing deep lungfuls of air, I scrambled over the fence and stumbled to my car, slipping and falling as my mind reeled with what I’d just seen. Who—what—could’ve done that?

  My hands, sweaty and ice cold, shook like crazy as I struggled to lock the door and start the engine. It took me a few seconds to realize that the weird wheezing, groaning sound was coming from me.

  A thought hurled itself at me, like a brick to the head: I’m completely alone out here. Whatever was responsible for the carnage I’d just witnessed might still be here, watching, lurking. I put the car in drive and screeched back out onto the road.

  I sped the ten miles into Eden, sliding over rain-slick roads, repeating the mantra “holy shit” over and over under my breath. What the hell had I just seen? What the hell had happened to those animals?

  My poor old car complained loudly any time I tried to push her over fifty, but I ruthlessly held steady at forty-nine until I was within town limits. Slowly but surely, I brought my frantic heart back down under control. There had to be a rational explanation for what I’d seen... Right? There had to be. I just needed some time to think rationally about it from a safe distance away.

  Besides, my brain was starting to get distracted by other thoughts and feelings. A sense of impending doom began to creep up on me, a nostalgic depression at turning on to the street that led to my mother’s house.

  When I pulled onto the small gravel road that led up to our one-story house, it was like I'd never left. Even the rusty metal junk my dad used to collect (with a plan to rework and sell them; he was a man of varied, inexplicable hobbies) was still there, piled up next to the rickety wooden shed. The mailbox was still bent courtesy of some drunken teenager.

  I parked next to my mom's beat-up minivan and sat in my silent car for a minute, gathering my courage. My heartbeat was getting a little erratic again.

  I can’t go in that house. I can’t. I won’t.

  I imagined myself as chubby toddler Cara, kicking and screaming in the throes of a monstrous fit, purple in the face, screeching, “I won’t go in that house!” That relaxed me a little, and a smile touched my lips. It was my survival strategy of more than a decade: when I couldn’t get a grip, I made fun of myself to snap out of it.

  I could go in the house, and I would. I didn’t live here anymore—this wasn’t my life. This was a temporary measure. All I had to do was ace the interview tomorrow so I could earn enough money to go back to Chicago. Or even a city a little closer, if that was what it took. This was temporary. Temporary.

  I repeated the word to myself as I got out and stretched in the gray drizzle, the angry rain having calmed down in the ten miles I’d driven. Or maybe the storm just hadn’t reached us yet. I pulled my hoodie around me and got my suitcase out of the trunk. The rest could wait.

  I knocked on the door and stood waiting awkwardly. Even though l had a key, it didn't feel right to just barge in after all this time being away. I hadn't even come home for Christmas these past four years.

  Too soon, the door opened and I came face to face with my mother. Her hesitant smile was reflected on my face. We were like acquaintances, forced to say hello after years of not seeing each other.

  She was shorter than I remembered, and skinnier, but what my roommate Tessa had called "skinny fat." There was an unhealthy yellow pall about her skin, as if she was very ill, and her brown hair had gone almost completely gray. I remembered a time when it had been the same shade as mi
ne.

  But in spite of all those details, it was her blue eyes, so different than my own dark ones, that made my heart clench painfully. If they’d been remote before, they looked completely dead now. There was no color, no life, no essence of her in them at all.

  I’d been planning to say something about all those slaughtered animals I’d seen, but the sight of her unseeing eyes pushed those thoughts way back into the recesses of my brain. It was all I could do to stand there, wondering what the hell had happened to my mother.

  "Come in," she said softly, stepping aside.

  I tried to stop panicking as I followed her in. Looking around the dark, stuffy room, it was pretty clear nothing had changed at all. The old his-and-hers recliners were still there, both now pointed at the TV. On the wall were school pictures of me, marching along from kindergarten through eighth grade.

  I glanced at her, but she just stood there, staring at nothing, seemingly lost in thought. When I cleared my throat, she jumped.

  “I’ll let you get settled,” she said, shuffling over to sit in her recliner.

  As I walked down the narrow hallway to my room, I heard the TV come on. That sense of depression and captivity sank down on my shoulders again. I’d heard the game show channel incessantly for all the years I’d lived here after Dad had died.

  She slept, watched TV, and worked. That was her life. Mine was the mirror-image: I lay awake all night, devoured books, and did schoolwork with a religious fervor. I’d always known getting a scholarship to college would be my way out.

  It still would be. It was a promise to myself I intended to keep.

  Nothing in my room had changed, as I’d expected. Some of the people in college had talked about how their parents had converted their rooms to offices or gyms the minute they'd moved out. It took everything I had to not snap at them. Normal parents were taken for granted too much.

  My mom had made the bed—or just left it made all these years—in my old white and turquoise polka-dotted comforter and pillowcase set. In the corner, my desk was empty, ready for a computer I didn't have. I'd done all my college work at the library or on Tessa’s computer when she wasn't using it. My parents had been too poor for a computer when I’d lived at home, and of course, after…the accident, the thought wouldn’t even have occurred to Mom. Not that we’d have been able to afford a computer on her waitress salary.

  My bookshelf, at least, still held some of the old volumes of my favorite poetry books. I was looking forward to reading them before bed later tonight. I got strength and comfort from those verses, like some people did from the bible.

  Lying down on my mattress, I stared at the popcorn ceiling, forcing myself to breathe in and out, in and out. The mini-blinds were closed, but I knew what I'd see if I looked out my window. Our gravel side yard, a rural road, and then nothing but miles and miles and miles of woods with snow-dusted mountains hulking in the distance.

  And the animals.

  I sat up, the horror of what I’d seen earlier crashing back down on me.

  When I walked out to the living room, Mom was still staring at the TV. I sat down on the recliner beside hers—the one that used to be Dad’s and was now nothing but a reminder of what we’d lost—my eyes gazing at the screen unseeing. Was she even aware of what she was watching, or did the noise work as an anesthetic?

  "Do you have to work today?" I asked at last.

  "No." Her eyes never left the screen.

  Reaching for the remote, I turned the volume down. She didn’t react. “Mom…” I waited for her to look at me. It took about thirty seconds before she finally did. “I saw something on the way in. At the overlook. There were a bunch of, of—dead animals. Looked like they’d been ripped apart and burned.”

  She stared at me, the look of complete apathy in her eyes unnerving. Finally I said, “I thought I might call the sheriff’s office.” But even as I finished, I knew it was pointless, me telling her this. I honestly didn’t know if she even understood what I was saying.

  Reaching out, I took her cold, thin hand. Was I seeing her differently because I’d been away so long? It was so obvious now that my mom wasn’t doing so well. She was ill, just like I’d thought when she’d open the door; she didn’t just look it. There was something very, very wrong with her.

  She continued to stare at me as I looked into her eyes, hoping for just a flicker of something. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry I hadn’t called or come home for the holidays. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry I’d left angry, that I hadn’t really said goodbye. I wanted to tell her I’d left to save myself, but I’d been selfish, and I should’ve realized that maybe she needed saving too.

  But I said none of those things when I released her hand. “You know, living in college, I learned to cook a little. I can make dinner tonight if you want." I tried on a smile.

  Her eyes wandered back over to the TV screen and stuck there. "All right."

  When dinner was done, I set the table and walked out to the living room. "Mom." She was asleep, her mouth open, her eyeballs moving from side to side as she dreamed. I wondered if she saw my dad. I shook her arm lightly. "Mom, dinner's ready."

  She looked at me, dazed, and just for a moment, a genuine smile crossed her lips. "Cara," she muttered hoarsely. "You look like your daddy." When her eyes drifted closed again, I didn't wake her.

  I sat at the dining table for twenty minutes, waiting for her to wake up. When thunder began to snarl outside like an angry animal, I decided to hurry and get the boxes from my car.

  I looked up as I stepped outside, missing the big skyscrapers and the busy, bustling atmosphere of Chicago already. But the air was much more breathable here, at least. I stretched my arms above my neck as I walked, a few cricks still in my back from having driven twelve hours. My only breaks had been power naps at the side of the road when I'd felt too foggy to be safe.

  Another rumble of thunder broke my reverie and had me hurrying to the car.

  The gravel crunched under my shoes as I listened to Eden’s natural melodies. An owl hooted somewhere deep in the woods, and another owl answered; squirrels scampered through some of the trees. I was leaning into the car, grabbing the box in the rear passenger seat, when I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

  Someone’s watching me.

  My mouth went dry in an instant; my heart felt like it would rip right out of my chest. My thoughts might’ve been going a hundred miles an hour, but my body was paralyzed with fear for a good long minute.

  When enough adrenaline had coursed into my system that I was able to straighten up slowly and turn around, my frantic eyes swept the road and the darkened woods beyond. But I didn't see anyone.

  It was impossible to describe how I knew that I was being watched—absolutely nothing stirred. I tried to shake off the uneasy feeling, marking it down to the scorched, torn-up animals I’d seen earlier. But then it hit me just how preternaturally quiet it was. No more owls hooting, no snick and snap of twigs as creatures roamed the woods. And it had grown perceptibly darker in just the five minutes I'd been out there.

  My palms going sweaty, I grabbed the box from the seat along with the interview outfit I’d hung in the back, and slammed the door closed with my hip. I didn't want to give in to my panic, but I couldn't help picking up the pace as I hurried back to the house. I locked the door and turned the deadbolt behind me for the first time in the eighteen years I’d lived here.

  Mom was awake and at the table, silently waiting for me with a plate full of food. We ate a cold dinner as rain began to pelt our house.

  Insomnia kept me company into the wee hours of the morning. My lullaby for the past four years had been sirens, store alarms, and traffic. Now all I had to listen to was the whooshing of the wind through the trees, the hooting owls, and the occasional barking of some stray dog somewhere. It wasn't nearly enough.

  I finally admitted defeat at around three a.m. and turned on my bedside lamp to read some poetry. I knew there’d be hell t
o pay the next day. My interview was at nine—early for me. At some point, I slipped into an uneasy slumber, my book fallen open on my chest.

  When I jolted awake, the sun was streaming in through my blinds. Sitting up, I glanced at my clock. Eight fifteen. I'd slept through my alarm.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I hopped in the shower and back out before I tore around my tiny bedroom, throwing on the interview clothes I’d brought with me: a secondhand pair of designer black silk pants and a nice button-down shirt. And, of course, my lucky pair of shamrock underwear. I wasn’t taking any chances.

  When I was dressed, I headed out to the living room to grab my car keys. The house was empty; Mom was already at work.

  Outside, the clouds scuttled across the slate sky. I hopped in the car and smoothed the sheet of paper with the address to Dax Allard Enterprises out on the passenger seat. It was located on what Edenites called “the hill,” but really, it was just a steep incline that lay to the northeast of town. Only about two miles past my mother's house, it flattened out to a plateau at the top. Back when I was in high school, the hill was nothing but dense woods that kids used as a make-out/smoking/drinking spot. Guess that was all gone now.

  The drive up the hill was fraught with unpleasantness, but I was determined to not view it as a portent. The road was so bumpy, my poor Volvo groaned in agony and I had to turn on my headlights because of the ridiculously thick vegetation. Trees grew close together, roots twisting and tangling together; their green canopies barely let any sunlight filter down.

  The job paid eighty grand a year, which was the only reason I’d even considered applying. I’d gone six months in Chicago chasing after anything that remotely had to do with my major (psychology), and even several jobs that didn’t. When my application for this position—as a “philanthropic liaison,” whatever that was—garnered me a call back, I’d had to admit that returning to Eden was probably the wisest idea. Especially since Mom wasn’t charging me rent.