by Joe Augustyn
The nightmare dragged on for what seemed an eternity before the boys were all finally spent and beginning to feel some guilt and some fear that they might be caught if they lingered at the scene of the crime any longer.
Felicia lay in a stony daze, her mind withdrawn from the ugly reality. She didn’t even notice as the gang slipped away into the night, dissolving into the fog like ghostly bandits. Slowly she came to realize that the horror had indeed ended, and she found herself alone. Like a broken doll she lay unmoving on the cold hard ground, covered only by a blanket of mist and the tattered remains of her kimono. Her flesh was splattered with cold sticky fluids, her panties bunched around her ankles. Icy points of gravel poked into her back like a thousand tiny devils.
She stared up at the black sky through the drifting fog, her eyes cold and glassy, like the eyes of a corpse. The moon gazed down solemnly, as if pondering her fate.
A black shape circled overhead. She could barely make it out against the night sky, but thought it might be a vulture, coming to pick her sorry bones.
She didn’t care if it did. Death would be a mercy.
The thing flapped its wings and shot off into the night.
23
The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller
5
Felicia lay like a stone, too paralyzed with emotion to move. The night air was close to freezing, but she felt nothing. Only numbness.
Once upon a time, she thought dreamily. Once upon a time… She thought back to her life before this night. How normal it had been. She thought how all the petty annoyances of her parents and school that once seemed so terribly important had really just been silly distractions. She thought of all the time and energy she’d wasted being moody and shy. I should have appreciated what I had. What’s been taken from me… forever.
She thought of her performance on the stage that night, and how great she’d felt in the spotlight, soaking up the applause, and how it was probably the last happy moment she would ever experience if she lived to be a hundred.
Her thoughts grew darker as images of the ugliness that ruined it all came flashing into her mind. The horrible cold masks, smelling of rubber as they pressed against her face. Rancid garlic breath blowing into her mouth. The groans and snickering of the boys. Their selfish soulless eyes. Their fumbling fingers. Slimy kisses. Crushing hands on her arms and legs. Choking her throat. Hurting me… hurting me… hurting me!
A tear streamed down her cheek. As if someone flipped a switch she started regaining her senses.
The first sensation she had was of the wind, rustling through the woods like a wandering ghost. It howled a bit louder as it circled the hollow. Blowing its frosty breath across her naked flesh. Then she felt the prickle of old pine needles and sharp stones stabbing her back like elfin pitchforks, and the dull pain of bruises that marked her arms and her thighs like the fingerprints of some unkind giant.
The crunch of a heavy footstep nearby caused a fresh jolt of fear to course through her body. A fear which quickly deepened as she heard another crunch, this one closer, and heavier… then another, closer still... and she realized something big was moving toward her.
Oh God no. What does he want now? It had to be Wally. He’s the only one with footsteps that big and heavy.
He’s coming to finish me off!
She tried to get up but was too dizzy and numb and weak with terror. Her vision was dimmed by the fog but she could see a massive black shape moving towards her.
A burst of panic exploded in her breast as the huge shadow blocked out the moonlight. Looming over her like death itself.
No please… God help me!
Her eyes finally focused on the shape as it descended rapidly toward her, busting a hole in the fog.
Then it was right above her face.
The head of a big brown bear!
27
The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller
6
“I think it’s time to wake up now, don’t you, dear?” The voice was gentle, and a bit creaky. A sweet old lady’s voice, with a soft European accent.
Felicia opened her eyes. She had mercifully passed out at the sight of the bear and the hot gamy smell of its breath.
Was it all just a very bad dream? She hoped that the flashes she remembered were all just pieces of some horrible nightmare. But the pain between her legs told her that the worst of it hadn’t just been a bad dream.
The old woman hovered over her, wrinkled mouth curled in a knowing smile. Felicia looked at her quickly then glanced around to see where she was.
The room was dimly lit but she appeared to be lying on a heavy wooden table in a rustic kitchen. A fire burned in a large stone fireplace. Thin plumes of steam hissed from the crackling fire. Simple cast iron skillets and antique utensils hung beside the limestone mantle. A large black cauldron hung in the fireplace over the fire, radiating heat from its crude iron surface. Bubbles from some weirdly aromatic stew popped above it.
In the fire’s flickering glow the old woman looked harmless. Grandmotherly, Old World style, with braided white hair and rosy cheeks, wearing a cotton frock.
Felicia knew better. She knew she was looking at Granny Dola. The county witch. The old woman was infamous. She cast spells and told fortunes for those daring enough to venture to her cabin in the woods.
But woe to anyone who crossed her. Rarely seen in town, she was nevertheless a major character in the local lore. Whenever it seemed that her legacy had grown cold, a new story would emerge, whispered around dinner tables and throughout the town. Most were tales that bolstered her dark reputation, recounting her latest act of revenge on some sorry soul who’d offended her, intentionally or not.
The most recent rumor involved a non-local real estate developer named Jackson who tried to bully her off her quaint little homestead. After his visit he never made it back to the town’s bed and breakfast. He was med-evacced to the nearest hospital with two broken legs and a dislocated shoulder, thanks to a skidding tractor-trailer and a swooping black raven that allegedly had caused the freaky accident. The truck driver was unhurt, the raven disappeared, and poor Mr. Jackson fled the state as soon as he could hobble away, never to be seen again.
“I’m alive,” Felicia murmured weakly. The image of the bear’s big furry snout and the memory of its steamy breath warming her face were fresh in her mind. But her terror and anxiety were mostly displaced by confusion now. How had she survived her ordeal?
And how did I end up here?
“Of course you’re alive,” the old woman answered. “You’re a strong young dzhevcheenkah.”
Felicia tried to sit up, but was still a bit woozy. She was surprised to find herself scrubbed clean and dressed in a monstrously oversized flannel shirt and equally humongous jeans, rolled up to fit her legs and secured at the waist with a piece of hemp rope.
“Drink this.” The old woman offered her a silver goblet.
Felicia leaned forward to take a sip but saw it was filled with a crimson liquid that looked suspiciously like blood. Her eyes drifted to the cup itself, inscribed with a moon and stars and pentagrams and strange witchy runes. Tarnished and scratched, it looked like a very old chalice. “No… thank you.”
“You must drink it. It will kill whatever foulness they impressed upon your body.”
Felicia was struck by her words but didn’t move. How much does she know? She heard the squeak of stiff metal hinges.
A door opened and closed in the darkness.
A second later an adolescent boy appeared beside the old woman. He was very big and round, dwarfing the woman next to him. Bigger even than Wally Sutter, Felicia thought. But unlike evil Wally, he had an innate sweetness about him. With his crude bowl haircut and bashful expression he looked like a refugee from a vintage sitcom. His eyes were soft and moist, gleaming with an eyeball’s equivalent of a smile.
Something about his presence comforted Felicia.
If such a sweet-looking boy lives here with the old lady, maybe
she’s not as bad as they say.
Duh. As if she could really be a witch.
“This is Elmo.”
“Hello, Elmo,” Felicia said, offering her hand.
The boy took it. His touch was gentle, yet strangely powerful.
“Elmo cannot speak. He was an orphan. A foundling. Left in a basket to die in the woods. Now he’s the grandson I never had.”
Found in the woods? Felicia considered how weird and questionable that sounded and wondered why the authorities hadn’t whisked him away to a proper foster home. But he certainly looked happy and healthy, so who was she to raise a stink?
“Now drink this,” the old woman prodded. “Please, my girl. For your own good.”
Elmo smiled and nodded reassuringly.
Felicia found herself trusting him, and by association trusting the old woman. She shrugged off her fears and took a tentative sip of the dark red potion. She was surprised by how pleasant it tasted, despite a mix of peculiar flavors that might have tasted foul on their own. She tried to discern the various ingredients on her tongue, but found the brew too complex and elusive. It was a little sweet and a little peppery and thankfully tasted nothing at all like the coppery taste of blood she remembered from tasting paper cuts on her fingers. In fact it was quite delicious, and she happily drank every mouthful.
Less than a minute after swallowing the last drop she felt a tingling that started in her tongue and throat and spread rapidly through every inch of her body. It was a strong but intangible sensation, relaxing her tight muscles and buffing away the last nervous tension in her mind. It seemed to be working on her nerves and her mind and her body all at once.
Wow! If the potion wasn’t real magic, it sure seemed to be. This must be what they call a panacea, she thought dreamily.
Felicia felt safer and more relaxed with each passing moment. She wasn’t sure if the evil memories of that night would come back to torment her, but at the moment she felt wonderfully at ease and secure. The residual pain and anxiety she’d felt just minutes before now seemed a very distant memory. Whatever might happen later, she was glad that she’d drunk the elixir.
“Now you’re officially one of us,” the old lady chirped. “Part of our little family. Although you’ve always had it in you, for sure.”
Elmo’s smile spread wider across his cherubic face.
“I do feel oddly at home here,” Felicia said placidly. And she meant it.
The old woman laughed. It was an innocent enough laugh, but something about it stirred a feeling Felicia didn’t particularly like. It was a nebulous feeling, and she quickly brushed it away.
“Elmo will see you safely home. Your parents must be worried to death,” the old woman said.
Then with a twinkle in her eye she added, “And we’ll see you again… when the time is right.
31
The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller
7
“Felicia, where have you been?” Her mother was irate. “It’s almost two a.m. for heaven’s sake. Your father and I waited like fools in that drafty auditorium before they finally booted us out. It was embarrassing.”
“Sorry.”
“Those seats were like concrete,” her father added. “Where have you been all this time? It’s well past your curfew.”
Felicia walked past her mother and father and trotted up the stairs without another word. She was relieved that they hadn’t seemed to notice the ridiculous jumbo farmboy ensemble she was wearing, and was eager to get some sleep.
The potion was still in effect in her system. She felt safe and somewhat dreamy and untroubled by the hellish ordeal she’d endured earlier that night. But the elixir was beginning to wear off and she sensed as much. She wanted to get cleaned up and be sound asleep before it did.
“Felicia!” Her father tried to sound authoritative but his voice cracked, making him sound like a clichéd liberal wimp.
“Leave her be,” Laurie Miller cooed to her perplexed husband, her anger giving way to relief that their only daughter was home, safe and sound. “She was probably just out celebrating with her friends. This was a big night for her. So she went a little wild. She’s a good girl. Let’s just be glad she came home in one piece.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Bill Miller. “I just hope it wasn’t too big a night.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. We’re too young to be grandparents.”
“How can you even think that, Bill? We raised Felicia right. She doesn’t even have a boyfriend. She’s not about to become some white trash ‘baby mama’.”
But Laurie sighed as she said it. Hoping that Felicia hadn’t finally cracked and given in to the kind of reckless teen behavior becoming too disturbingly prevalent, even in their small rural town. There were so many temptations these days. So many bad role models leading kids astray. It seemed like every once adorable child star just couldn’t wait to grow up and unleash her inner slut. Was there a Disney kid left who hadn’t turned up on the internet flashing her naked beaver?
“We’ll get to the bottom of it tomorrow,” she continued. “Besides, she’ll probably regret it in the morning. A hangover might be just what she needs.”
“Well, she’s always been a good daughter. I guess she deserves to blow off a little steam,” her father said, sounding like a yogurt-slurping NPR commentator.
“I just hope it doesn’t become a habit.”
Upstairs in the bathroom, Felicia checked her face in the mirror. She looked grotesque. Her eye make-up had run down her face with her tears, creating an abstract mess on the pasty remains of the greasepaint.
She climbed into the shower and opened both faucets wide. An icy spray hammered her face, but she was too numb to flinch. Slowly the water warmed. Soon it was steaming hot, gushing freely into her nose and mouth, nearly drowning her.
Streams of mascara melted down her face to her belly, joining the trickle of blood seeping from her throbbing loins. The water was as hot as she could stand it, yet it couldn’t match the stabbing heat of pain between her legs.
Soaping a loofah she scrubbed and scrubbed, chafing her tender skin until the water again turned icy and her father’s knuckles rapped nosily on the bathroom door.
“Punkin, are you alright in there?”
Rather than arousing any further suspicions she switched off the water. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Well, be sure to take a few aspirin. Tonight. That way you won’t have a hangover when you wake.”
“I’m fine, daddy. Go to bed.”
35
The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller
8
Each step down the school hallway seemed more monumental than the last.
So many faces. Gawking faces. Googly-eyed boys. Grinning girls. Googly-eyed girls and grinning boys.
Why are they staring at me? Are they mocking me with their smiles? What do they know?
“Hey, Felicia! Great show last night.”
Show? Are they talking about the talent show…? or…?
She knew how quickly rumors spread throughout the school. All it would take was one of those evil boys bragging to a friend, or posting a tweet about it.
Maybe they already have, and the whole school knows my dirty secret. Maybe that’s why they’re grinning.
Oh God. What if they made a video? Is that the show they’re talking about?
She tried to sort through her sketchy memories of the attack, trying to recall if anyone had brandished a cell phone or camera to record her humiliation.
No. Not in that fog. Even if someone had a camera they couldn’t have gotten a clear picture in that fog.
She had blocked out the lurid details of the attack, thanks to the witch’s potion. But they’d started surfacing as soon as she fell asleep, returning to haunt her in her dreams. Granny’s numbing magic had worn off by then and she was forced to confront the pain and
the truth, even in her sleep.
It all came flooding back in a series of fractured dreams. Dreams that forced her to relive the vile experience over and over, in random bits and pieces.
The horrible flashbacks piled up until her heart felt ready to explode, and she finally bolted awake, gasping and sweaty and feverish with emotion.
The evil details she’d suppressed were back and undeniable. Tears of the remembered terror flowed from her eyes like blood from a wound. The pain in her groin was back, and much sharper. Hideous bruises on her thighs and breasts and arms and belly testified to the cruelty of the attack. Painful reminders of the violent indignity that the Halloween-masked perpetrators had subjected her to just hours before.
Despite their attempted anonymity, Felicia was certain who their ringleader was. The scummy bastard whose father controls the law in this county. Whose father won’t let anything come between him and his precious son.
Now, hours later, in the light of day, she was forced to mingle with the very same villains. Here, in what should have been the sanctity and security of school.
Oh God, how can I face them?
She trudged mechanically toward her first class, closing her mind to the bustling activity around her.
The school hallway seemed endless and exhausting. Although it was packed with students swapping books from lockers or trading bits of gossip, it seemed to hold a peculiar emptiness for Felicia. The chattering of students seemed a million miles away.
The students turning to smile at her as she passed looked like glassy-eyed mannequins. Their lips moved in apparently friendly greeting, but Felicia heard only indecipherable noise. A buzzing hum that seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.
Finally she reached the door of her first class. But as she was about to enter she glanced through the open doorway and saw Wally Sutter sitting smugly at the back of the room. Holding court with his usual decadent bravado. Laughing and slapping hands and bumping fists with the boys around him.
