by J. R. Rain
MOON MOURNING
by
J.R. RAIN &
MATTHEW S. COX
Samantha Moon Origins #2
Moon Mourning
Published by Rain Press
Copyright © 2018 by J.R. Rain & Matthew S. Cox
All rights reserved.
Ebook Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication
The authors wish to dedicate this book to Eve, Mariah and Clarissa.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Reading Sample
Other Books by J.R. Rain
Other Books by Matthew S. Cox
About J.R. Rain
About Matthew S. Cox
Moon Mourning
Chapter One
Denial
Disintegrating flecks of wood lay scattered on the tiles in front of the bathroom sink. The cabinet door looks expensive, but under the veneer, it’s particleboard.
More of the bathroom’s flaws leap out at me: a misshapen corner, a lump in the wall, an error in the sponge paint I did almost a year ago. I look again at the crumbling cabinet door. Is it a metaphor for my life? Fine and normal on the outside, but no substance inside? Had I been lying to myself, to the world? On the outside, my family appears perfect, but on the inside…
Stop it. Being tight on money doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with my family.
At least, nothing wrong with Danny, Tammy, or Anthony. I’m the problem. Now, the very big problem. I take some breaths, steadying myself. The kids’ voices seep through the bathroom door from the living room, both singing along with Barney. A flash of night sky fills my memory, cold air wafting across my throat. Those few seconds had been so precious when I thought I would never see my children again.
My inability to explain or even rationalize what’s going on with the mirror brings me right back to how I felt that night. I grip the side of the bathtub, trying to shake off the lingering terror that keeps my head down. Whatever happened out there didn’t take me away from them. No explanation comes to mind―at least, none that make sense―but I do know one thing: my kids still have me, and nothing will ever make me feel like that again. If I can somehow brush aside even death for my kids, anything else this world throws at me will be trivial.
Another squidgy heartbeat registers to my ears.
Right. Here I am taunting the Grim Reaper and I’m still too much of a chicken shit to lift my head and confront the mirror again. Minutes pass. I take slow, careful breaths―that is, when I think to. If I don’t make the effort, my breathing, well… ceases.
What’s happening to me?
Still too freaked out to feel much of anything but numb, I lift my gaze once more to the mirror and stare at the hollow opening at the top of my nightgown. Off-white hovers in front of the black tiles surrounding the bathtub behind me. No head. No trace of my flesh appears in the reflection anywhere. The mirror is tormenting me, mocking me. If not for the memory of how much work I put into hanging the bastard thing myself, I’d smash it.
“This is just too…”
I shake my head. No, I can’t really be seeing this. I mean, c’mon.
I’m not sure how I can win a staring contest with emptiness. My butt isn’t even numb from the cold porcelain edge of the tub I’ve been sitting on for who knows how long. Like a fatal car accident I don’t want to watch but can’t help but stare at, I remain transfixed on the mirror while rising to my feet. When I lift my arm, an empty sleeve floats into view in the reflection. I keep reaching, fingers outstretched toward the lying thing in front of me. A second before contact, a soft knock at the door makes me jump back and cringe like I’ve been caught with a boy in my bedroom at fifteen.
“Hon? Are you okay?” asks Danny through the door.
My bare feet appear ghostly against the fuzzy black bathmat, so pale they’re almost luminescent. Each of the four giant bulbs over the mirror cost us $24.99. LED you know… saving the environment one socket at a time. “I’m checking the bandages.”
The knob rattles. Danny hesitates. He knows I never lock the bathroom door, so something must be wrong. A change of pitch in his breathing gives away his concern.
How the hell? My hand flies to cover my mouth before I can gasp.
I’m hearing him breathe!
The rush of air, in and out, as loud as if I’d laid my head upon his chest, mesmerizes me. His scent permeates my senses, too, strong and musky, pungent. His taste lingers on the roof of my mouth, though my tongue hasn’t been near him in days. Longing and dread, both simultaneous and overpowering, collide. I want to burrow into his embrace and have him tell me I’m crazy, that this is some strange, hallucinogenic dream; but, I also dread how he’ll react. My gaze shifts to the mirror. Telling him and having him see this… would just make it real. Surely, it’s all in my head.
It’s gotta be all in my head.
“Do you need a hand with them?” asks Danny. “Can I help you with anything?”
A strange crunching rustle follows, then repeats. It takes me a few seconds to realize the meaning of the noise―he’s scratching, probably at his chest from the texture of fabric. How am I able to hear his nails raking over his shirt from here, like my ear is an inch away from him?
“I’m okay… I won’t be in here much longer.” I lift my hand and subconsciously mimic his gesture, scratching at my shoulder.
Rip.
A small cut appears in the reflection of the nightgown, making me gasp and stare at my… pointed fingernail. No… that didn’t just happen. My nails are not sharp enough to cut fabric.
He lets a heavy sigh out his nose. The thud of his forehead on the door makes me jump. “All right. I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”
“Thanks. I…” I stare at my feet. “I won’t be in here much longer.”
The squish of his shoes on carpet recedes to silence.
Danny, wait! I yell in my head and dart to the door, but I barely manage to get the lock undone before fear stalls me. What am I going to tell him? Hey, hon, I think our mirror’s broken. You see, I don’t have a reflection anymore.
After backing up to face the lying slab of glass again, I lift my nightgown to my chin and gawk at the nothingness in the mirror. Defeated, I let the satin fall from my grip and stumble backward until my heel strikes the tub.
I sink back to sit on the edge, shaking my head. None of this can be real. That night jog? Never happened. I’m still in bed having a wickedly awful dream. Maybe I even died at Nick’s Super Burger when that kid unloaded his .38 revolver. What are the odds he’d
miss all six shots from like fifteen feet away? The first one killed me and everything I think happened after that has all been in my head, the last-hurrah theatrical production of a dying brain gasping for oxygen.
My hair flies back and forth as I shake my head harder and harder. Nope. I don’t believe this is real. No one has their throat torn open like I dreamed happened to me and walks out of the hospital a few days later. No one goes days without peeing. And no one can survive with a heartbeat in the range of three to six beats per minute.
It’s impossible.
I’m impossible.
This mirror is impossible.
Wake up, Sam.
Grief pulls me forward and I wrap my arms around my legs, my head against my knees. Every ounce of my being wants to cry, but either shock or some unknown physical impairment gets in the way. So, I hug my legs to my chest, gazing down at my far-too-white feet.
“This isn’t real. This can’t be happening. I’ve got to be dreaming.”
Chapter Two
Off-Limits
Disbelief, fear, and wonder swirl around in my head. I can’t tell if I’m lying in bed caught in a nightmare or sprawled on the semi-paved front lot of Nick’s Super Burger next to the half-eaten mess of my lunch I’ll never finish. Surely, I can’t actually be sitting here in my bathroom, while not appearing in a mirror, and not having used a toilet in days, or eaten… or…
A pathetic squishing thud, my heartbeat, echoes in my head.
I can’t remember the last food I had before the egg burrito in the hospital that wound up flying straight back out of me. Aware of a palpable hunger, I scratch idly at my stomach, mindful not to shred my nightgown. The sensation is odd, though; deeper, the craving for nourishment is entwined with the very fiber of my being. A fleeting thought of the hamburger that may or may not be lying beside me as the last vestiges of warmth leave my bullet-riddled body does nothing to pique my appetite.
This can’t be real.
The Barney sing-along stops. Ad jingles carry on for a minute or three. My kids’ voices trail off to silence once the high-pitched chattering of cartoon children fill the vacuum the purple dinosaur left behind.
My head snaps up and I lock eyes with my non-reflection. Dreams don’t go on for this long, do they? Could the final five seconds of consciousness in my dying brain feel like a week passing? And if I hadn’t died at Nick’s Super Burger, surely I had died in the park that night. If this is happening, if I’m really awake, aware, and in my bathroom now, then what’s happened to me? How could I possibly not have so much as a mark on my neck that had been torn clear open? And what explanation could there be for how I look like I’m in my twenties again―or as pale as a corpse? I could totally rock a Morticia Addams outfit for Halloween.
The thought catches me off guard and I wind up laughing at the stupidity of cracking a joke when my brain’s lost in a spiral dive. I could be dead or dying and I’m thinking of stupid crap like costumes.
I am hungry, yes, but none of my usual go-to ideas for food tempt me in the least. Maybe I’m having a craving for something weird, but I couldn’t be pregnant… could I? They’d have said something at the hospital… assuming any of that hospital stuff really happened.
“Oh, what the hell do I want to eat?”
Metal scrapes on my right.
I lift my head and peer toward the sound. Tammy peeks around the door, one hand grasping the edge, one tiny bare foot creeping into view. She’s still in her nightdress, a grape jelly stain on her chest.
“Mommy? Are you okay?” she asks.
The sight of my daughter pushes away the doldrums shadowing my heart. I start to smile at her, but my gaze fixates in on where her delicate neck meets her shoulder. Long, fine strands of black hair stand out in perfect detail, almost down to her elbows. A thin line swells and fades, her carotid artery thrumming with each beat of her heart. The child’s scent floods my senses. Warm. Alive. Her young flesh mixed with the fruity essence of the jelly stain, green apple shampoo, and a hint of oatmeal cookie.
My stomach twists, growling, hungry. Tightness spreads across my face, below my eyes. Not quite pain, the unpleasant sensation makes me flinch. Seconds later, it cramps my lower jaw. What is wrong with me? Why am I staring at my child like she’s filet mignon?
No… veal.
“Mommy?” Tammy steps all the way into the bathroom, pushing the door aside. “What’s wrong?”
No! “Gah!” I force myself to look away. W-what have I become? My body shakes with horror. I will not.
Tammy’s feet patter over the tile. I about scream like someone’s throwing boiling water on me when she leaps into a hug, snuggling tight to me. Her breath washes over the side of my neck, little fingers clutching my nightgown. My daughter’s heartbeat echoes in my mind. She smells… appetizing. The tender skin of her neck waits inches from my lips. This hunger demands to be sated. All I’d need to do is lower my head and lean to the right.
No!
“Get better, Mommy,” says Tammy into my shoulder. “I love you.”
I close my eyes and pat her on the back, rocking softly side to side. “I love you too, sweetie. More than anything.”
No way in hell. I will not harm my children. Something dark and evil slithers around the back of my consciousness, a vague, shadowy presence that doesn’t belong there. More and more, the sense that I’m being watched, or that my thoughts are not purely mine, comes on. It wants food.
“Barney’s over, Mommy. Anthony and me were singing with him. Like this…” Tammy starts belting out the theme song, almost even on key, a first.
The strange cramping tightness starts in my face again.
No. I will not. A tear runs down my cheek. Not my kids. Not my family.
I don’t understand what’s happened to me, but the instant I believe I might be a threat to them, I will end it all, no hesitation.
I stand, cradling Tammy in my arms, and shy away from the mirror. She wraps her arms and legs around me, mostly sitting on my right arm. Listening to her voice hits me like a knife; this is one of those precious moments I almost lost. My four-year-old singing her heart out to make me feel better. How many more little random things from either one of my children would I have missed if I died that night?
I’m not dreaming, or dying. I’m home―with my family.
The temptation to devour her fades for a moment, but returns when I kiss the top of her head and catch a strong whiff of her scent. Jaw clenched, I ease my face away from her so she doesn’t notice me recoiling.
No goddamned way. My family is off-limits. One more tiny inkling of temptation, and I will find a way to destroy myself. There is nothing I will not do to protect them. Nothing.
“That’s the song, Mommy.” Tammy leans back enough to grin up at me.
Whatever inner strength let me overcome the darkness lurking in the hallway that night and rush into Tammy’s bedroom pulls me out of the mental pit I’ve sunken into. The slithering ick in my consciousness recedes, and I no longer feel the least bit of anything toward my child but protectiveness and love.
She tilts her head in confusion. “Why are you crying?”
Tears in my eyes, I heft her up and brush at her hair. “You sang so beautifully.” I wink. “Thank you for cheering me up.”
Tammy grins.
“Come on.” I set her down on her feet and take her hand. “Let’s go see what kind of trouble your brother and Daddy are getting into.”
She giggles, and pulls me along toward the living room.
Chapter Three
Still Me
Tammy leads me down the hall, walking past memories as much as physical space.
Every bit of molding makes me think of the hours we spent painting. The doorway to Tammy’s room triggers an image of Danny laughing with a blotch of white on his forehead; the paint roller had fallen off the ladder and beaned him. A small uneven spot along the hallway near Anthony’s room catches my eye. The master bedroom had a section of wall th
at the previous owner had damaged so severely we had to basically rebuild it. Danny had been carrying an armload of wood down the corridor when he tripped over the baby’s toy. The lumber went flying, and one 2x4 gouged the drywall here. I can still see him lying in a heap, wood everywhere, laughing at himself. Good times.
At the end of the hall where it opens to the living room, my mind next conjures an apparition of Danny kneeling, cursing up a storm at the tool he’d rented to staple or nail down the carpeting. It took him hours to figure out how to get it to work, but at least we saved a few hundred bucks. Once he got the hang of it, he did a fair job… and only stapled his finger once.
Anthony’s sprawled on the floor near the TV, playing with action figures. I think the Blue Power Ranger is wrestling a triceratops. He looks up at us as we enter, and sits back on his heels, giving me a suspicious eye. Only his head moves, tracking my progress across the room to the couch, where Tammy crawls up to sit beside me.
“Hey, hon. You okay?” asks Danny from the kitchen.
“Yeah, I think so.” I settle into the cushions, gazing around at my home. AC/DC’s Thunderstruck blasts in my memory. All the furniture vanishes, replaced with drop cloths and ladders. I daydream about Danny in an old white T-shirt and jeans, the two of us dancing and messing around to the too-loud music on a Saturday afternoon. In my memory, Mary Lou had the kids; we had a buttload of housework. And I had lead singer Angus Young getting me through it all.
Anthony keeps staring at me like he’s not sure who I even am.
“Hey, kiddo,” I say, smiling at him, trying to project the love I have for my son into a physical radiance he can feel. “What’s the Blue Ranger doing?’
“Stopping monsters,” says Anthony, still giving me a measuring stare.
Danny drifts back and forth in the kitchen, muttering low about legal stuff. Probably has his cell phone in the apron’s pocket, using headphones. For now, he’s home to take care of me, yet still working as much as he can. I can’t fault him that. We really do need all the money he can get. I’m grateful that he’s here for me and has the freedom, for now, to work from home. Without him, I think I’d be lost.
