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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Samantha Cross
Lunar Rampage
SAMANTHA CROSS
To my brother, Erick, for always being my biggest fan.
CHAPTER ONE
Dragging along my bag of clothes, shoes, mosquito spray, and my lucky camera, I knocked on the front door of my Grandma Wendy’s. She had lived in Michigan's Upper Peninsula for as long as I could remember, tucked away in the tiniest of towns, called Rookridge, that was buried so deep within the woods you could drive by and completely miss it. The last time I came all the way up here, I was still in braces, teased by the neighbor kids and dared to bite through a pipe using the metal in my mouth. In typical fashion, I did as they asked because I wanted to fit in. Or I was stupid. Probably a mix of both.
The house and yard were just as I remembered them in my head. Grandma still had lilac bushes planted at the front end of her white house, the porch, while aged, was still a dark shade of oak with four beams supporting a roof over the front door, and even after all this time, she still hadn't replaced the second step, that wobbled and threatened to break when I pressed my foot down on it.
It was like nothing had changed.
Rookridge had a unique look, reminiscent of a campground, where each yard was separated by thick, massive trees that hadn't been trimmed in ages, giving each home a very, very private living experience. The downside of this much tree life was the ever present aroma of musty wet forest ground in the distance. The smell was so strong you couldn't escape it, and it, unfortunately, was a magnet for mosquitoes that left me covered in bites after just a few hours.
I don’t know how Grandma could live with the unrelenting bug biting and smell of mildew in the air.
But Grandpa was dead, Grandma was retired, and here she could live comfortably off her monthly checks. With how much money she got after Grandpa died, I kind of thought she’d upgrade to a nicer home, or at least add on. But she seemed content staying in her tiny cottage of a house that wasn’t even as big as the barn she had in the backyard. It was a pretty old looking barn, too—one I’d have to get comfortable with if I was going to begin those renovations.
Grandma finally opened the door, and much like her surroundings, she was just as I remembered. Still wearing her oversized bingo sweater (crazy, considering the heat), giant dark circle sunglasses, and puffy short hair that I swear was a light shade of blue.
“Grandma!” I yelled and spread my arms out wide. I was expecting some kind of hug or recognition, but she instead stared at me like a dragon had just spewed fire from my hair. It didn’t take long for me to realize she had no freaking clue who I was. “Grandma, it’s me, Cora. Your granddaughter.”
“Melanie?”
“No, Cora.” Melanie was my taller, blonde cousin. There was no mistaking us. I was about five inches shorter and had chestnut colored hair, not blonde. Oh, and I didn’t have the habit of getting drunk and driving my car onto the front lawn of a public school.
Grandma stared me down a few more moments, and then as if light bulb went off above her head, she suddenly recognized me. “Cora!” she shouted joyfully and then pulled me into her arms. “It’s so good to see you. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
“I did. On the phone. Last night.”
She pulled away from me, looked bewildered, and then flicked her forehead with her finger. “Damn brain of mine.” My family was convinced she was coming down with Alzheimer’s, while I simply preferred to call her eccentric. She was a kooky, free spirit like myself, and it was one of the reasons we got along so well, when she remembered who I was, of course.
“How have you been?” she asked.
“Good. Real good.”
“Must be. Whatever it is you’re doing, you’re at least well fed,” she told me while cackling and patting my belly like I were a dog.
My face fell and I ran my hands over my stomach. “Wha−what does that mean?”
“Where’s Owen?”
I tilted my head at her. “Okay, I got the Melanie thing, but this is throwing me for a loop. Who is Owen, Grandma?”
“Didn’t we talk about this on the phone? He’s supposed to come over and help you with the renovation.”
“Grandma, you didn’t need to call someone. When I said I’d do it, I meant it.”
“We could all use a little help. You’ll like him. He’s a hottie.”
I chuckled at my grandma’s persistence to stay hip. “Okay, Grandma.”
“Come inside, dear, I’m making us something to eat.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I told her. I found it odd that she couldn’t remember who I was, yet knew to make us dinner.
“Don’t be silly,” she said and then took my hand. She dragged me into her house like the eager granny that she was, giggling and poking at my sides. The layout hadn’t changed since I was a kid. Essentially, it was one giant wood paneled living room with oak doors on all sides and a fireplace in the center, and then a kitchen to the left of the entrance. It was small and quaint, just as she had liked it. Way different than the city life I had become accustomed to. I had no issue trading in my life, living in an apartment building where the friendliest faces were the rats in my cupboards, for a summer of country living with my grandma.
The kitchen was the nicest part of her house, though still very small. The counter stretched along the walls and against windows that looked out into the side yard where her barn and porch were. I tried to find her stove to see what she was cooking (and it was an old ass looking stove too), and instead of a warm meal, there was an unopened can of cream corn, flipped upside down, inside of a pan on an unlit burner.
“Oh, Grandma, you shouldn’t have...” I said dryly.
She realized her mistake, and instead of freaking out about it, laughed and said, “My friend, Alzy, paid another visit.” I guess with all the rumbles of my parents talking about her horrible memory, she decided to go with it and give it a nickname as though it were her friend. An odd coping mechanism, but one I could appreciate.
I swung my arm around her and said, “How about I make dinner?”
“But you’re my guest.”
“I’m staying with you all summer. It’s the least I could do. Besides, if your good friend Alzy shows up again, this house is likely to spontaneously burst into flames.”
“Oh, Cora.”
“Hey, you remembered my name,” I teased.
“Make something good. My stories are on in an hour.”
Grandma took off into the living room and left me to the kitchen to prepare our meal. It was like a maze trying to find the pots and pans, because none were organized. I even found forks and spoons under the sink with the cleaning supplies.
I tore through the freezer and found nothing but meat and Popsicles and realized I was going to have to go shopping. I could easily throw on some fish or chicken for Grandma, but I was a vegetarian and was going to need a little green for my meal. I asked her where the nearest store was and, after twenty minutes of our conversation getting derailed to tell me about the paper boy, I finally got some real directions and headed out in my car.
It was the strang
est thing, driving down the empty roads of the neighborhood after living so many years in the loud, bright city of Detroit, but the peace and quiet was very welcomed. When my dad told me Grandma needed her roof patched up and the house itself painted, I volunteered without hesitation. Why? I honestly needed a break from the city, missed my Grandma (and she is sadly getting older), and thought what better place for an aspiring photographer than the woodsy lands of the Upper Peninsula? Even if I screwed up the paint job at Grandma’s, maybe I could, at least, get some good shots of nature with my camera. There are only so many city skyline pictures I can add to my portfolio before it becomes repetitive.
After just a few minutes of driving, I found what seemed to be the grocery store, but passed it once because I honestly thought it was a post office. It was that small. There didn’t seem to be any other stores for miles and miles, and it was one of the few open areas not covered in thick patches of woods, so I knew I had found it. The outside of the building was two different shades of brown, with the darkest being on the shutters and roof. It reminded me of the little booths you go to and pay for a lot to stay in when you're camping. The neighborhood was so small and woodsy that everything truly did look and feel like a campground. I kept expecting to see the little fountains on the side of the road where you filled up your water jugs.
Across the street from the store were several trucks parked alongside the forest and the edge of the street with several logs and pieces of trees tied up in the beds. I could hear the saw buzzing and see the dust from the trees flying everywhere. They must have been cutting them down for some reason, but the noise and dirt felt a little excessive, like they were taking down more than they needed.
I hopped out of my yellow Bug and headed into the store, walking up the dark brown wood steps. It was a tiny building, sure, but a little more spacious inside than I imagined, set up like the typical convenient store with three aisles of candy, chips, and random vehicle supplies. Inside the freezer with the beer and ice cream were packs of chicken and hamburger meat, and I pushed them all aside and grabbed bags of corn and asparagus. As small as this business was, they actually had a lot of options.
My arms were full of food as I teetered my way to the checkout, nearly dropping all I had and doing a snake dance in the middle of it. The cashier was hiding behind an oversized magazine and didn’t look like she gave two shits that I almost decorated her floor with beans. Eventually, she dropped her reading material and started ringing up my items. She looked like a depressed Goth, with her black hair tied into a messy knot, her hoop earrings bigger than my wrists, and her eyes blackened and smudged with makeup, that I considered she was preparing for war.
“Hi there,” I said in my typical geeky fashion, waving my hand like she were several miles away, while she ignored it like I were invisible. I pathetically dropped my hand down to my side, feeling the embarrassment rise to my cheeks.
Suddenly, she stopped bagging the bread and said, “You’re Cora, aren’t you?”
I didn’t know how the heck she knew my name, and thought perhaps all girls named Cora gave awkward greetings. “Yeah, that’s me. How’d you know?”
“I heard some shit about Wendy’s granddaughter staying here for a while.”
“I’m gossip now?”
“No one around here has a life. This is as exciting as it gets.”
“Should I consider that a compliment or...?”
“You want your milk in a bag?” she asked, no selling my attempts at conversation. No selling is what I like to call when someone completely deadpans your efforts at wit or conversation. Imagine a competitive wrestling match between a heavyweight and a featherweight, and the featherweight is pounding on the heavyweight's chest only for him to be completely undamaged and unresponsive to the heavy blows. Yep, that was her and I, at that moment, and she was the world champion while I was the dorky featherweight in striped tights.
All I could guess was, she really didn’t like me or had no social skills. It was probably a bit of both.
I knew I was going to be here for a few weeks and I figured it didn’t hurt to strike up a little conversation. You know, be the social butterfly my mother always envisioned me being. “Since you know who I am, what’s your name?” I asked.
At first, it looked like she was put out by my question and didn’t want to answer, but then she very dryly replied, “Priscilla.”
“Ah, Priscilla. Not a name you hear often. Did you get it from the Priscilla?”
All it took was one gaze from her blue, warrior painted eyes for me to know this was not a new question for her. “If you’re asking if my mom owns every Elvis Presley album known to man, then yes, I was named after that Priscilla.”
“Well, hey, being a namesake can be cool.”
“Yeah, named after Elvis’ child bride,” she scoffed. “You know how often I was teased for that shit? I would have rather been named Gandalf.”
“Somehow, I don’t think the teasing would have been better.”
“I wanted to put it to my mom so many times growing up. Either running away, getting knocked up, or taking to some terrible habit like smoking or heroin addiction.”
I couldn’t tell if she was serious. “That’s hardcore.”
“Yeah, but I hate kids, so it would never work.”
I felt like we had treaded into some weird territory and wanted to do my best to reverse it. “I’m not a namesake,” I awkwardly backtracked. “In fact, it seems like no one these days has my name. There was my old mail lady from a few years ago, who I was convinced was named Cora, until someone told me her name was actually Laura.”
Priscilla stared at me blankly.
“You know, because it rhymes with Cora...”
“Do you want to pay me or what?” she asked with that damn no selling again.
“Sure,” I replied hastily and handed off my money from my mint green wallet. I don’t know why it was green. I’m still not even sure where I got it or why.
“Oh, yeah, we have savings and stuff,” Priscilla said and threw a piece of paper in my direction that hit my chest, bounced off, and landed onto my loaf of bread on the counter. All without even bothering to look me in the eye. “Here are some coupons.” Of course, she said it in a completely unappealing I-wish-I-was-dead tone.
“Well, since you did it in such a sweet fashion, how could I refuse?”
I was almost out the door and in the clear until this heavy set, sweaty guy came through the back door of the store carrying several boxes. He was dressed in a white shirt and apron, which I assume meant he was a meat cutter and not a creepy serial killer. I thought most meat cutters spent their time in cool areas so the meat didn’t go bad, but this guy’s brown hair was absolutely drenched with sweat that it was dripping down the sides of his face and to his rosy cheeks.
As soon as he saw me, he set the boxes on the ground and asked, “Who’s this?” The town must have been a lot smaller than I thought if a random customer was throwing him for a loop. Everyone must have known everyone here.
Priscilla’s whole body tightened and she rolled her eyes, like the presence of this guy was too much for her to handle. “God, Henry, go in the back and eat fish heads or something.”
He ignored her and approached me with a cheerful demeanor. “I’m Henry.”
“I caught that. I’m Cora.” He extended his hand for me to take, but honestly, the idea wasn’t too enthralling. I didn’t want to be rude, but the very hand he had offered to me was used to wipe a layer of sweat that had accumulated beneath his red nose just a few seconds prior. I lied and said, “I’d shake, but I have creepy, dead cold hands. It’s best no one came into contact with them.”
“Oh,” he said and pulled away. I think he believed it too much. “You’re Wendy’s granddaughter.”
“Yeah, I am.”
“I cut her grass last summer.”
“Yeah, until you almost had a heat stroke on her porch,” Priscilla added.
“Hot weather and I
don’t mix,” he explained.
“It’s all right, I don’t like the heat, either,” I agreed with a cheerful disposition.
“I bet excessive amounts of it won’t cause you to create a pool of your own sweat that you can drown in,” Priscilla interjected.
“You really are a chipper gal, aren’t you?”
“The chipperest.”
“I don’t think that’s a word.”
“Weren’t you on your way out?”
“How long is your visit?” Henry asked me.
“A few weeks, maybe. I’m helping my grandma renovate her house a little bit. You know, a paint job here and there, a few tiles on the roof. The winter was sort of rough on her house, so I’m sprucing the place up a bit.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” he said and very quietly gasped for air. The boxes he carried must have been heavy. Or that’s what I told myself. “If you or your grandma need any help, I could always come by your house.”
“Can it, dillweed,” Priscilla roared. “If she wanted help, she’d ask for it.”
“I was offering!”
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I rejected politely. “I don’t want any more help than I already have.”
“Someone else helping you?” Priscilla asked.
“My grandma mentioned something about a neighbor who might want to lend a hand. Well, she said it earlier. For all I know, Grandma could have made him up.”
“Old ladies are crazy.”
“Uh, yeah....”
“Who are they? I might know them.”
“She said his name was Owen something.”
Priscilla did an over the top laugh and eye roll. “Figures he’d come over to kiss ass. What a boy scout.”
Henry chortled. “You’re just pissed he dumped you after one date.”
“Uh, kiss my ass, fatso. That is totally not the reason. God.” She threw out another eye roll. “Why don’t you go in the back where you came from? I’m sure there are things that need to be stocked or mouse traps that need to be tested.”
Lunar Rampage (Lunar Rampage Series Book 1) Page 1
