by Melissa Haag
Dealing with Demons
Melissa Haag
Copyright © 2014, 2020 Melissa Haag
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without express written permission from the author.
ISBN 978-0-9888523-0-3 (eBook Edition)
ISBN 978-1-943051-57-1 (Paperback Edition)
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Editing by Ulva Eldridge
Cover design by Covers by Christian
© Depositphotos.com/NeoStock.com
Version 2020.10.01
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Morik’s eye colors
Author’s Note
More books by Melissa Haag
Books by M.J. Haag
Chapter One
Light spilled onto the bed where I lay curled on my side. For a moment, Brian stood unsteadily in the doorway. Then, sweeping a hand through his hair, he sighed, turned off the hall light, and made a noisy attempt at creeping into the room. We both knew I wasn’t asleep, but neither of us spoke.
In the next bedroom, our daughter slept, oblivious to her father’s infidelity and, later, his alcohol-induced death.
Standing in the senior hallway of Middlelyn High School, I dipped my shoulder, shrugging off Brian’s warm hand and the remnants of the vision.
“Tessa?” he asked. He stood close to me, waiting for my answer.
Revulsion filled me as the bitter tang of stale alcohol lingered in my nose. I managed a smile and answered his question with a lie.
“A movie and dinner would be great, but I’m not allowed to date. Sorry, Brian.”
He shifted his stance and tucked his hand into the front pocket of his fashionably worn jeans.
“I could come over and maybe help with homework or something.”
Animated conversations from the kids flowing around us muted his suggestion. It didn’t help that the school secretary’s voice also blared over the intercom system with the end of the day announcements and joined the cacophony of noise. None of it really registered, though, as I studied Brian’s expectant face.
With his messy, light brown hair, chiseled classic features, bold blue eyes, and buff body, he could have his pick of dates.
“Brian, I have to be honest. I don’t trust you or your sudden interest. What’s up? Really.”
When I first moved to Middlelyn months ago, the boys asked me out based on genuine interest. Because of my blonde hair, deep brown eyes, trim figure, and oval face, I passed as attractive. Add to that the fact I didn’t grow up with any of them and witness their awkward stages of puberty, nor they mine, and I stood out even more. Fresh meat. However, after I’d declined to go out with every boy who’d asked, the requests had tapered off, and I’d been labeled a prude. Just one of many labels I now carried.
The sudden interest of one of the most sought-after seniors didn’t fit.
Brian flashed his cocky I’m-hot-and-you’re-not grin before answering.
“Fifty bucks for the first one to get you on a date. Say yes, and I’ll split it with you.”
Hurt, but not willing to show it, I turned away and stacked the textbooks into my locker. He didn’t leave, most likely because he thought the money would tempt me to change my mind.
In a school this size, everyone knew where I lived and that my family didn’t have much. Brian probably didn’t even realize how cruel his words sounded. It annoyed me how callous boys could be. Dating was all a game to them. Then again, I’d witnessed girls acting as bad. In fact, I knew I could be one of those girls on occasion. I didn’t like it, but sometimes I didn’t have a choice.
“Wow. So tempting,” I said, still facing the locker. “But if I take half, it won’t leave much for the booze you’re thinking about buying.”
Glancing his way, I caught his startled look before he schooled his features. I immediately regretted my temper. Annoyed or not, I should have kept my thoughts to myself.
“You’re a freak,” he said as if just now believing the rumors circulating about me.
I hated the rumors but couldn’t claim them untrue. My mouth often got me into trouble. Might as well finish with flare.
“Yep, and the freak thanks you for asking her on a date, Brian.”
Grabbing my jacket and bag, I closed the locker door with a metallic clang and walked away. A few of my schoolmates hurried out of my path. I ignored them and their careful avoidance of me.
As much as I tried to keep what I saw to myself, sometimes I failed. And, that’s how the rumors about me seeing someone’s death started to circulate around school. People didn’t like hearing how they were going to die. It didn't matter that I was trying to helpfully warn them. They only saw me as a freak when I knew things I shouldn’t. Yet, how could I keep quiet when I saw so much death that I might be able to stop if I just said something? I still wasn't sure if I had that kind of influence over their fates, but it didn’t stop me from trying.
The glimpse of my life with Brian replayed in my head. Although it wasn’t pretty, it remained consistent with most of my visions. Not horrible, but not great either. At least, not for Brian. If I dated him, he’d drink himself to death. But what if I didn’t date him? Given his reaction to my suggestion that splitting the winnings would cut into his drinking money, I’d guessed accurately about his current drinking habits. Would my sarcastic comment change anything? Despite his attitude, I hoped it would.
I let myself out of the main doors and immediately smelled bus exhaust tainting the clean, cool, fall air. Other students jostled around me as I headed toward the end of the line and boarded my bus. The warmth was welcome.
The driver used her mirror to watch the trouble underway in the back of the bus and ignored me as I sat near the front with the younger kids. They were less irritating, and that made the forty-minute bus ride tolerable.
The flow of kids leaving the school slowed, and the first bus in line finally pulled away. The rest of the line slowly followed.
Taking the bus sucked at my age, especially when I already had my license. Even with both Mom and Aunt Grace pooling their incomes, there just wasn’t any extra money for even the crappiest of a second car for my family. I hated the limitations that came from living so far out of town.
The young boy next to me tapped my arm and asked me to tie his shoe. I smiled at him then showed him how to make bunny ears out of the laces. Little boys were cute until they learned to care what their peers thought of them.
At one of the first few stops, I moved to let him out. After that, I stared out the window and watched the trees pass in a blur of brown.
When the bus emptied of a few of the more obnoxious older kids, I pulled out my homework. I always finished my assignments on the bus, which worked out well. Despite the long ride, I usually beat my mom and aunt home. With my homework done, I could help out Gran a little more.
Two minutes after
finishing my last math problem, the bus slowed for my stop. Gravel crunched under my feet as I stepped down from the bus, and a crisp breeze swept past.
I went to the mailbox to do my one true chore in winter, and quickly placed the mail under one arm before returning my hand to my pocket. The air that had felt cool and refreshing after school now just felt chilly.
Eyeing the distance to the house, I again wondered how we would manage to shovel our long driveway. Naked trees and long, dormant grass crowded the narrow drive. Small hills and valleys in the gravel made for a bumpy ride or a slow walk. It would be a challenge to navigate with a shovel. But, the house made up for the driveway.
From a distance, the faded green paint that coated the wood siding of the two-story farmhouse didn’t look bad. Up close, you could see the crackled pattern in the paint that stubbornly clung to the old boards. Other than being drafty and needing paint, the house remained in good shape, and low rent made it worthwhile.
I spotted my great-grandma waiting for me on the porch and hurried my steps. Her stark white hair stood out against the green paint behind her as she rocked slowly in an old wicker chair. She had no jacket on, just a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
In her early seventies, though she looked the grandmotherly part, she didn’t always act like it. Her life had been hard early on, especially after the death of my grandmother. It had taken its toll. She’d told me repeatedly that my birth had breathed life back into the family. Life that she embraced with every breath.
“Gran, it’s getting too cold to sit and watch for me.”
She laughed away my concern.
“The cold won’t be what kills me. How does spaghetti sound for dinner?”
“Great.” I helped her from the chair, and we both went into the house.
It wasn’t much warmer indoors, but I still peeled off my jacket before I followed her to the kitchen. I knew the small, cheery room would warm up as soon as we started cooking.
I moved to the butcher’s block, and she went to the pantry.
“Anything interesting happen at school today?” she asked, returning with an onion for me to peel and chop.
“Brian asked me out. Touched me. With me, he’d be a drunk and a cheat until the day he dies.”
“Any kids?” Gran asked absently, moving the empty pot from the stovetop to the sink.
The image of a sweet, cherub face invaded my mind, and I suffered a pang of loss. The visions, along with their emotional attachments, always stayed with me for a few days.
Gran set the pot full of water on the stove and pulled out another pan, jarring me from the fake memory.
“One.” I grabbed some garlic to mince while she prepped the sauté pan with oil.
“Hold out for at least two.”
I didn’t bother answering. That’s what my mother, the aunts, and grandma always said. Not, “Hold out for a guy who will live to see his hair turn white,” or, “Wait for the right one. Someone who makes your toes curl.” No. Instead, their suggestions all revolved around holding out to make the best of a horrible fate. After all, that’s what they’d all done.
Understanding their stance didn’t stop their answers from frustrating me. I didn’t want to make the best of things. I wanted life to go easy on us all for a little while.
I could feel Gran’s eyes on me while I chopped in silence.
“Tessa, honey, you know we want you to be happy. We’ve all tried to find what happiness we could. When you lose your man, you’ll at least have your daughters. That’s why we say to wait.”
The onions and the garlic made my eyes water so when I answered, I sniffled a little. “I know, Gran. I just don’t understand why this happens to us.”
“All we have is what is in Belinda’s book,” she said sadly before turning to pour the noodles into the boiling water.
Belinda, the first of our line, had created an unpretentious, small book that detailed the basics of her life and gave us a few slivers of knowledge.
All the women of our line had a gift. With a single touch, we could see a glimpse of our future with the man we were touching. The touch only worked on men, and it manifested exactly on our twelfth birthday. Belinda’s book warned that we had until our seventeenth birthday to choose our future partners, and that gift would disappear when we made our choice.
It sounded simple. A wonderful gift that would enable the women in my family to avoid the cheaters and the unmotivated and search for the one who could make us truly happy. Who wouldn’t want that? However, there was a catch. None of us would ever be happy because the gift came at a price. The one we chose would always die young. If we were lucky, we’d have a daughter or two before that time. Only daughters, never sons.
Belinda’s book left so much for us to guess. What would happen if we didn’t choose? Neither she nor any of her descendants ever noted an answer. Only that we must choose.
In the back of the book, Belinda had started a family tree of sorts. Mothers noted the birth of their daughters by entering their names. Many branches just stopped. Like Great-Aunt Danielle’s, Gran’s twin. She never had a daughter. No one ever talked about who she’d chosen or what had happened. My mom had warned me at an early age not to bring it up. Mostly, Aunt Danielle sat quietly on the chair in the corner of the living room, her haunted eyes staring off into space. I suspected she lost a daughter long ago along with her husband.
Aunt Grace, my mother’s sister, had chosen a man who wouldn’t give her children. Unlike Aunt Danielle, Aunt Grace spoke about her decision once when just the two of us were home. She hadn’t wanted to condemn her child to our shared fate of the visions and forced choice. But after helping to raise me, she regretted her choice because now, only one branch remained active in the book. My mother’s. Everything rested on me. I’d have no cousins to share my burden when I had children of my own.
Gran and I worked in silence. The smell of fresh basil, plucked from the herb pot in the window, filled the room. Water bubbled on the stove and slowly heated the kitchen. Gran added the chopped ingredients into the frying pan, and I moved to sit at the table. I buttered bread, cut each slice in half, and set them to the side. I enjoyed working in the kitchen because of the warmth and light.
“Looks like it will be dark early tonight,” she said with a glance at the cloud-laden sky through the window by the sink. “Homework done?”
“Yeah.”
I already missed summer and its long hours of daylight.
Only in winter did I truly resent the rules in Belinda’s book. Actually, not all the rules. Mainly just the one that stated those with the gift had to be home before dark. The book gave no explanation why. Just simple instructions to secure the house before the sun sank below the horizon. A brief note stated that shutters worked best to block out the night.
Between school and the bus ride, I never had much spare time in winter. In late fall through early spring, the monotonous events of my short days made me want to scream. Get up and race to school. Do homework while riding the bus home. Make dinner with grandma, eat, and get ready for bed. No time remained for anything else.
Mom and Aunt Grace arrived home just as Gran and I put supper on the table. As usual, Aunt Danielle didn’t join us. However, Mom and Aunt Grace didn’t seem overly worried about her. As Gran’s identical twin, I supposed they would worry if she started to look thinner than Gran.
After supper, we all got ready for bed. I had priority on the shower since I wouldn’t wake before seven. Another lovely rule. To protect any daughters from the night, the daughters slept until the sun’s first ray crested the horizon. In winter, that rule made it a tight race to get to school on time.
Mom knocked on the door.
“Fifteen minutes until dusk. We’re starting now.”
“Okay,” I called back, turning off the water.
I hurried to pull on my pajamas. The material stuck on my damp skin a few times, and as a result, I rushed out the bathroom door with clothes that felt sli
ghtly twisted.
The tightly closed shutters blocked out the fading light and cast most of the house into darkness. Using my hand as an anchor on the hallway wall, I moved to the living room where everyone waited.
They sat on their heels in a small circle in the middle of the living room floor. Their quiet murmurs filled the house as each spoke the words of protection from Belinda’s book. This was the one time of day Aunt Danielle always joined us.
Outside, I could feel the sun setting and a cold, scary presence growing. I stepped between Mom and Gran to stand in the middle of their circle. As one, they rose and reached their right hands toward me. Their fingertips brushed my bare arms, and lethargy set in, cocooning me in safety.
“Sleep tight, Tessa,” my mom whispered as she wrapped an arm around my shoulders.
She led me to my room. I struggled to keep my eyelids open so I didn’t run into my bed. Waking up with a bruised shin made me grumpy.
Yep, I hated winter, weirdly induced sleep, and boys who died after committing their lives to me.
I woke abruptly and glanced at my mute alarm clock. Seven a.m. Mom stood by my bed with a plate of toast.
The cycle began anew.
With a sigh, I sat up and shoved a huge bite of toast into my mouth. Though cheap and filling, I disliked toast. Probably because I had it every weekday during the school year. I’d tried cereal, but I made an awful mess in my rush to get ready and usually wore milk dribbles to school. Now, cereal remained reserved for the weekends.
While I chewed, I tossed on clothes then grabbed my bag.
