The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller

by Joe Augustyn

  When her eyes locked on his, she had all the confirmation she needed. Not once during the attack had any of the boys removed their masks, but their leader’s eyes she would never forget. They were burned into her brain. Even at this distance, from far across the room, Wally’s eyes were undoubtedly the same cold shark eyes that had feasted on her naked body through the eyeholes of that skeleton mask.

  Spinning on her heels she staggered back into the now empty hallway, heading for the nearest exit. Stumbling like a mindless jerky doll.

  Without remembering how she got there Felicia found herself sitting on a swing in the lower school playground. Lolling back and forth in a detached daze. Her feet were drawn up beneath her, sweeping the air like a twisted pendulum.

  A pair of legs swung out beside her, heavy-soled black motorcycle boots scraping the gravel beneath the swingset.

  Felicia’s heart fluttered. She looked over to see Ruta Pulaski beside her, sitting on the next swing over.

  Ruta.

  The school weirdo. The town’s punk princess.

  There was something not quite right about Ruta’s sudden appearance. How did she manage to sneak up on me across the loose gravel in those clunky boots? And what is she doing here anyway? Is she somehow in cahoots with those scummy bastards?

  Felicia strained her memory but didn’t remember ever seeing Ruta hanging out with or even being close to Wally or any of his crew. But then again she’d never really paid much attention to the reclusive punker.

  The same age as Felicia, Ruta stood a half-foot taller. Lithe and pretty enough to be a fashion model, she was a natural beauty who dressed herself up in most unnatural ways. Half of her once flowing blonde hair was shaved close to the scalp. The remaining half was streaked with alternate strands of black dye and twisted into witchy braids. A sleeve of flower tattoos covered one arm. No sunny daisies or cheerful marigolds. All gloomy blue bellflowers and purple violets and coils of dark thorny stems.

  Her funereal look was topped off with somber eyeshadow, black lace spiderweb stockings and a moth-eaten shawl that was the mainstay of her wardrobe. The image she projected was of a punk witch. Some people claimed to have seen her heading out to the woods near Granny Dola’s place.

  “Are you okay?” Ruta’s voice was somehow soft and hard at once. It fit her delicate features, pierced with a single chrome spike below her lower lip. “Felicia, right?”

  Felicia stared at her silently. Unsure of what exactly she was asking. Does she know what happened to me? Or is she just making small talk?

  “I heard you got tricked into the woods last night,” Ruta said, as if in response to the unspoken question.

  A surge of embarrassed anxiety flooded Felicia’s gut.

  Oh my God. Who else knows?

  Ruta again seemed to read her thoughts. “It’s okay, kid. Nobody else in the school other than you and me and the perps knows what happened out there. And I’m not about to tell anyone, trust me. It’s not like I talk to a lot of people here anyway.”

  Felicia looked at her wide-eyed, as if to ask how she knew.

  “Granny asked me to keep an eye on you,” Ruta hinted.

  Felicia slumped forward on her swing, dangling at an odd angle, held up by the cold chains pressing into her shoulders. She stared at the gravel beneath her feet, which remained drawn up, as if she’d be sucked down to Hell if she dared let her heels touch the ground.

  “You don’t want to press charges, do you? You’re too embarrassed, right?”

  Felicia stared at her numbly. Remembering how Ruta looked just a year ago, when her family moved into town. A quiet, bashful blonde angel. An all-American girl.

  “You need to visit Granny again. Soon.” Ruta twirled on the seat of her swing, twisting the chains above her. “She’s the only one who can turn it around for you. In fact, she already has. You just don’t know it… yet.”

  She smiled cryptically, and for one fleeting moment Felicia could have sworn that Ruta’s eyes were more reptilian than human. Then Ruta lifted her feet and her swing started spinning.

  Felicia hopped to her feet, about to run away. But Ruta grabbed her by the wrist. As quick as a striking cobra. Her grip was surprisingly strong, but not hard enough to cause Felicia any pain. For such a slender girl, she had plenty of power and grace.

  “You don’t think you’re the only one, do you?” Ruta asked sharply.

  Felicia stared blankly at her eyes, which again for the briefest moment took on a reptilian cast, with shiny black slits like marquise cut onyx.

  Felicia closed her eyes for a second, and when she opened them again Ruta looked normal, running a slender finger over a snakeskin choker on her neck.

  Felicia looked at the intricately woven choker. It seemed to tell a story of mystery and magic.

  Ruta smiled cryptically.

  Felicia pulled her wrist free and ran off toward the woods.

  81

  The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller

  9

  Felicia wandered aimlessly through the forest, unable to go home and too overwhelmed by everything that had happened in the past twelve hours to return to school.

  The evergreens hissed overhead, rustling in the crisp autumn wind. The cool air should have chilled her to the bone, but Felicia felt nothing. Nothing but emptiness. Bleak bitter emptiness.

  As if drawn by some diabolic magnet, Felicia found herself at the edge of Devils Point Hollow, staring at the circle of mystic boulders in the middle of the clearing. She didn’t dare step closer, for beyond those stones lay that unholy patch of soil where her happy world had ended the night before. But she couldn’t pull herself away either. Stuck like a fly in a glue-trap.

  She stood there for countless minutes, trembling and shivering as waves of anger and sadness and hopelessness washed over her, and an avalanche of flashbacks recounted her shameful ordeal.

  The boys’ savage fingers clawing her girlish flesh. Their tongues lashing her ears and throat and more intimate parts of her body. Coating her with their poisonous slimy spittle. Their heartless invasions of her virginal sanctity.

  She felt like breaking down and crying. Longing to release all the pent-up emotional pain. But something in her told her it would be pointless. Nothing in her would ever be restored, no matter how many tears she shed. Ever. She was a ruined girl. A walking shell. Condemned to endure the remaining years of her empty, broken life.

  Finally she could bear these thoughts no longer and ran off deeper into the woods. She wanted to disappear from the face of the Earth. To dissolve into nothingness. To become as small and meaningless as she felt.

  Some time later she reached the edge of another clearing. The sun had shifted so she knew it was past noon, but had no idea of the time.

  Peering from the safety of the woods she recognized Granny’s little log house. It looked quaint and organic, like something from a fairy tale.

  Cords of firewood were neatly stacked along one side. A garden patch brimming with lacy green herbs and colorful poppies filled a lattice pen. Ducks and chickens wandered freely, squabbling and clucking. A dog slept in a patch of sunlight, a cat nestled against his ribs.

  Funny I should end up here... I’m sure I couldn’t find my way back if I tried.

  Felicia ducked behind a shrub as Elmo stepped into the clearing from the woods, carrying an impressive load of firewood. He dumped it gently on the woodpile, then turned and looked around, as if sensing something. His movements were graceful but a bit stiff.

  Felicia watched as Elmo raised his head high, stretching his neck, and sniffed the air. Even at a distance, she could see his nostrils flaring and twitching. His arms drooped at his sides like oversized sausages, his fingers limp and curled. Suddenly he turned in her direction.

  Felicia ducked even lower and sucked in her breath, afraid to exhale. Crouched behind a dense shrub, she was certain she couldn’t be seen, but when she snuck a peek through the foliage, Elmo was staring in her direction. Then he smiled, a telltale sm
ile which seemed to signal that he was not only aware that someone was hiding, but actually knew who it was.

  He cocked his head to the side, as if to say “really?”

  Felicia hesitated a bit longer, feeling sillier with each passing moment, then slowly rose to her feet, a timid look on her face.

  Elmo chuckled, a strange muffled sound that for some reason reminded Felicia of an overstuffed teddy bear. Once again she felt comforted by his presence, which seemed nothing but good and wholesome and organic, and she stepped forward into the witch’s yard.

  As she approached the cabin, Elmo pushed the door open and held it politely. Felicia entered, feeling a bit shy but strangely confident. Somehow she knew she’d be welcome here.

  Granny Dola was sitting in her rocker near the fireplace, weaving a choker from thin strands of soft gray leather. Her fingers moved in rhythm with the rocking of her chair, adding a weave with every rock.

  “Right on time,” the old woman said, and with a final twist of her fingers she completed her task and held up the finished necklace. “This belongs to you.”

  Felicia hesitated.

  “Go on, dear, it won’t bite. And it’ll do no one else a speck of good. It was made for you. Specially for you.”

  Felicia took it, admiring how intricate it was and how much work must have gone into it. It was very much like the one Ruta wore, except for the type of leather. She turned it around and around, examining the complicated weave, which seemed to have no beginning or end. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  “The weave is a very old and very special pattern. It was taught to me by my mother… who learned it from her mother… and so forth… back to the days before nations. Back to before the Christians came.”

  Christians? Felicia tried to make sense of the reference. Was it simply a matter of time… or was there some pagan significance?

  The old woman smiled, a smile laden with mystery and delight, and once again Felicia felt a little uncertain about the woman’s true motives. She had never been superstitious, but anything even vaguely Satanic creeped her out. Still, she knew that Wiccans protested any suggestion that they were Satanic or evil in any way. It was, they claimed, simply an ancient religion.

  “Put it on,” the old woman cooed. Her soft European accent reinforced Felicia’s impression of her as a gentle old grandmother.

  Felicia took the choker and tried to put it on, but after draping it around her neck she couldn’t find a way to fasten it.

  “How do I…?”

  “Here, let me help you.”

  Felicia leaned forward and the old woman’s fingers made a quick knitting motion at the back of her neck. Her touch was as light as a feather, but in just a few seconds the choker was secure.

  Felicia was surprised by how well it fit, and how comfortable and light it was. She barely felt like she was wearing anything. As if it was a natural part of her.

  “I’m not sure I’ll know how to get it off and on. You’ll have to show me.”

  “You don’t ever take it off. Even in the tub when you bathe. It won’t shrink and it will last as long as you do. It’s the key to your power.”

  “Power?” Felicia was intrigued but a little suspicious and skeptical. “What power?”

  “The power you drank into your body with the potion. The power you drank into your soul.”

  Felicia’s uneasy feeling returned, along with memories of the stories she’d heard about the old woman’s darker exploits.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will, dzhevchinka. But first there’s one more thing…”

  The old woman grabbed Felicia’s wrist and before she knew what was happening she’d pricked the tip of her finger with a hatpin.

  “Ow!” Felicia cried. “Why did you—?”

  “Shhh…” the old woman quieted her, then she moved Felicia’s hand over a small mirror in her lap. She gave a slight squeeze and a drop of Felicia’s blood plopped onto the glass surface.

  The old woman released Felicia’s hand and bent low over the mirror, studying the pattern made by the spreading blood, humming and murmuring strange exclamations as she discerned whatever it was telling her.

  Soon the old woman chuckled. Elmo stepped closer, peering down at the mirror with a puzzled look on his face.

  Granny turned her face up toward Felicia, sporting a playful grin.

  “Meow,” she cooed.

  Felicia just looked at her, more confused than ever.

  The old gal’s not a witch. She’s a bona fide nutcase.

  “The cat is your swoopyeh.”

  “My what?”

  “Your totem,” she replied. “Your guardian spirit. You possess the spirit of a cat. Just as Elmo possesses the spirit of a bear.”

  “A bear?!” Felicia remembered the face she saw on the night of her attack. That big furry face staring down at her.

  She looked over at Elmo, who glanced shyly at his toes, a secretive smile on his face. There was no way what she was thinking could be real. But she thought of the way he looked outside, raising his head and sniffing the air.

  No way. No effing way.

  “Now you possess the gift,” said the old woman portentously. “No one can hurt you now. Not if you use your gift wisely.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I could tell you but you’d never believe me. Not until you see it for yourself.”

  “See what? Please stop talking in riddles.”

  “This evening, when the sun goes down, you must sit before a mirror and paint your face. Choose your face paint wisely.”

  “Paint my face?”

  “Like a kotka. A cat. Any cat will do. Tabby. Calico. Or simply black and white.”

  Holy shit, thought Felicia, the old gal is certifiable.

  “And when the night is over,” the old woman continued, “You must sit and face the very same mirror as the sun returns to the sky. Only then will you become human again.”

  81

  The Nine Lives of Felicia Miller

  10

  “Not so fast, young lady.”

  Felicia paused on the staircase, clutching her schoolbooks defensively.

  Laurie stared at her imperiously. “You haven’t explained to your father and I where you were last night.”

  “There’s nothing to explain. I went out after the show with some friends to celebrate. You and daddy always say I should be more sociable.”

  “Sociable? That doesn’t mean hanging out past midnight on a school night. It was almost two in the morning when you walked through that door. We didn’t know what the heck happened to you. Do you know how worried you had us?”

  Apparently not enough to go looking for me, Felicia thought. “Sorry.”

  “That’s all you can say? Sorry? You’ve always been such a levelheaded girl, Felicia. I hope this isn’t a sign of things to come.”

  “One night out and you’re going to crucify me?”

  “Oh please. Don’t go getting all drama queen on me. Your father and I just want to make sure that—”

  “That what?”

  Her mother thought for a moment. It all seemed so silly. Of course Felicia will be alright. She’s just a normal teenage girl. So she had a little extra fun with her friends.

  “Nothing. Just be careful. We love you.”

  “And I love you too. Let’s just forget last night, okay? It was nothing. Just one crazy night. Please don’t get mad… I’ll be totally honest with you… I had a glass a wine… and I felt dizzy. I had to wait til I felt better to walk home.”

  Felicia felt funny lying to her mom. She never lied. But then again, maybe it’s not a lie. Maybe I did have wine. Maybe that’s what Granny gave me to drink.

  She wondered if she had made a mistake by not telling them what really happened. There’s no way I can tell them what really happened now. They’d never believe me if I changed my story.

  “I thought it was something like that,” her mother said knowingly. �
��Call it mother’s instinct.” She smiled proudly. “We didn’t even have a chance to tell you how good you were in the show. We were both very proud of you. I mean that. You were wonderful, Felicia.”

  “Thanks,” Felicia said humbly. And with that she ran upstairs to her room, her head spinning with possibilities as she flopped onto the bed.

  Don’t let your fantasies run away with you, girl. Old lady Dola’s obviously a nutball and if you start believing her bat-shit nonsense you’ll end up hella-crazy just like her.

  A cat indeed. Jesus.

  But the memory of that bear face hovering over her was not so easy to dismiss. And how did I end up in the old lady’s cabin if someone didn’t carry me there?

  But a bear… a bear that’s really a boy? It’s crazy.

  Elmo probably carried me. I’m sure he’s strong enough. After I hallucinated the bear face. Yes. Of course. I was for sure in a state conducive to hallucinations. I was gone.

  Or he could have been wearing a bear mask. Yes. There you go. But where would he get such a real looking bear mask? Certainly not in any shop in this town. And he’s not on the internet, is he? Not in that cabin. I don’t even think they have electricity.

  Maybe he killed a real bear and made the mask. Like those Viking berserkers. Didn’t they wear animal skins? Or he could have bought it from some hunter.

  But something in her wasn’t satisfied. She was grasping at rationalizations, not explanations. Even if she could explain the realistic appearance of the bear’s fuzzy snout, there was nothing human about its gamy smell.

  What if it is real? What if there really is real magic in this world… and Granny really is a witch? There are all those stories about her… they had to come from somewhere.

  She opened her Macbook and googled “witch.” After checking out countless links she found herself looking up “shapeshifter.” Buried among useless links for software and games she found “reptilian shapeshifters” including videos purporting to show newsmen and political bigwigs shifting right on camera—flashing slitted reptilian eyes that made her think of Ruta.