She looked at the clock on the wall. It was only four.
“You’re early,” she said.
“Is that a problem?”
“No, uh, I’ll let you in.”
She ended the call and went to the panel next to the front door, pushing a button. From the window, she could see the gates opening. Russell drove through and once he was safely inside, she closed the gates. If anyone wanted to sneak past, they’d have to climb the fifteen foot gate with pointed spades at the top. To her knowledge, no one had ever tried.
She opened the door and greeted Russell with a smile. He got out of his car—a later model, canary-colored Camaro—and smiled back.
He looked in awe at the house. “Wow,” he said. “You live in a mansion.” He pointed to the left. “And you have a hedge maze. That’s so cool.” He pointed to the right. “Is that a chapel?”
She was standing at the threshold, shivering. “Yep.”
She let him inspect the mansion and the grounds a little longer, before motioning him forward in a silent plea for him to hurry, fearing that she’d freeze to death. He understood and started walking toward the front door. After she’d stepped aside, he advanced and remained standing in the foyer, scanning beyond.
“I was expecting something more…dark.”
Edie closed the front door and locked it. “Dark?” she repeated.
Russell nodded, looking around. “I thought there’d be skulls and lit black candles or something.”
Edie was confused. “It’s not Halloween yet.”
“Oh, not that…” He seemed embarrassed. “It’s just that your uncle’s a horror writer and this place is so...”
“Cheerful?” she supplied.
Russell nodded again.
Edie smiled. “I’m sure I can find a skull around here somewhere if you feel cheated by the ambiance.”
Russell chuckled. “No, that’s okay. I guess I shouldn’t have made assumptions.” He looked around again, as if he were trying to find someone. “Is your uncle home?” he asked, clarifying his scrutiny.
Edie pointed at the darkened part of the house. “He’s in his study, working on his novel. It’s best not to disturb him,” she cautioned.
“Have you told him I was coming over?”
Edie shook her head.
Russell furrowed his brow. “Well, I don’t want him to get the wrong impression when he sees me.” He blushed. “You know…another man in his house…with his niece.”
Edie threw a dismissive hand at him. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s not like we’re going into my bedroom or anything.”
Russell blinked. “Oh, yeah, right.” He gestured at the living room. “Is there okay?”
“Sure.” Edie led Russell into the room.
He took off his coat and laid it across the back of the sofa. “Sure is hot in here.”
“Sorry,” she apologized. “I can’t take the cold.”
She was still wearing the multi-layered clothes that she’d worn at school, sans the outer garments. Still…she was cold. This unseen cold presence never left her side.
Russell sniffed. “Coffee?”
Edie nodded. “My uncle was brewing a pot, but I’m sure we can have some. What do you take in yours?”
“Just sugar,” he replied.
“Be right back.”
After she’d prepared his cup, as well as one for her, she grabbed her notebook, and brought it to him in the living room. He’d chosen a spot on the sofa, and she sat a few feet over, not wanting to get too close.
“Mmm, thanks,” Russell said, after he’d taken a sip, and then set the cup down on the saucer that she’d brought with it. “So...” He tapped her notebook, lying closed on the coffee table. “What’s this?” he asked.
Before answering, she drank half her cup of scalding hot courage, and then set it down on the saucer. “It’s my notebook from your class.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember. Still got those lecture notes I gave you?”
She pulled out the stack of sheets and put them aside, and then she opened up to the page in question. Nervous, yet eager to see his reaction, she slid the notebook toward him. He picked it up and narrowed his eyes at the text. She waited, wringing her hands in her lap.
Finally, he set the notebook down and looked at her. “You wrote this?”
Edie nodded, stilling her hands. “But I don’t remember doing it,” she defended. “I was paying attention to you, writing down the lecture notes—or thought I was doing that—anyway, after I was done, I studied what I’d written and saw that,” she explained, waving a hand at the repetitive phrase in cursive script: You’re going crazy. “It’s just like with Mrs. Featherstone. She had no memory of writing ‘fat girl’ either. Yet…we wrote what we wrote. It was our handwriting. What happened with Mrs. Featherstone was explained away as a drug withdrawal. She wasn’t taking her antidepressants, but what about me, Russell? What’s my excuse?”
She’d slid closer to him in her distress. Now she was looking up into his dark, gray eyes, pleading for help.
“Have you ever done something like this before?” he asked, gesturing at the page.
She shook her head. “Am I going crazy?”
“First, don’t use the word ‘crazy,’ all right? Second, we’ll get through this, okay? We’ll figure this out together.” He clasped her hand. “Have you told anyone else?”
“No,” she said, finding her hand glued to his, their fingers intertwined.
He was comforting and she didn’t want to let go. With his other hand, he cupped the back of her neck, gently massaging.
“Edie, it’s okay. You’re going through a lot right now; the death of your parents, combined with moving to a new place, living with a new person, can take a toll on someone’s mind.”
He pulled her closer and she was nestled against him, her head into the crook of his neck. He’d stopped massaging hers, but kept holding her hand.
“That makes sense,” she said. “But strange things have been happening to me ever since I arrived in Grimsby.”
He shifted so he could look at her. “What strange things, Edie?”
She told him about Lockhart Manor and all the events afterward. He didn’t seem to believe her, but he didn’t tell her that she was going crazy, either, which was a positive.
“Like I said before, you’re going through a lot,” he said. “The mind is treacherous, Edie. It can betray us, make us think we see things that aren’t there, hear things that aren’t there, feel things that aren’t there.” He let go of her hand and briefly caressed her cheek.
“But I wouldn’t recommend you being committed. I think after a few more days of getting acclimated to Grimsby, meeting new people, making friends, all these...fears…will just go away.”
“I hope so.” She finished the rest of her coffee and almost spat it out; it was freezing cold. “Yuck,” she said. “Don’t drink yours. It’s cold by now. I’ll make us some fresh cups.”
When she stood, Russell stood too. “I’ll help,” he offered.
“No, it’s okay.”
He smiled. “I insist.” He followed Edie into the kitchen, and when she went to the coffee machine, he said, “I’ll do it. You just sit.”
She hesitated but eventually sat atop a stool at the kitchen island and watched him at work. He made hers first. She was surprised that he’d known exactly how much sugar and how much cream to put in it. He made his next, and then grabbed a stool, adjusting it on the other side of the island, so that they facing each other across the short expanse.
“How’d you know?” she asked, referring to her perfectly blended coffee.
Russell gave her a crooked smile. “I know everything about you, Edie.”
She almost dropped her mug, panicking, but she managed to set it down without a spill. “What?” she asked, even though she’d heard him perfectly.
Russell’s face darkened, resembling a shadowy mask. She remembered that look all too well. He was staring into her eyes, and
the corner of his mouth was raised, as if he were in on some great, big secret.
“I lied awhile ago,” he finally said. “You really are crazy, Edie. Certifiably insane. Nuts. Bonkers. A total whacko. Looooneeee,” he sang out the last insult.
Her mouth dropped. “Russell?”
He took a sip of his coffee, set the mug down, and then came over to stand behind Edie. She was afraid and kept her back to him. He laid an arm on either side of hers atop the island, and then he pressed his chest against her back, trapping her.
“Edie,” he said softly in her ear. “Do you know what they do to crazy people?”
She swallowed, afraid, unable to speak.
He sniffed and moaned like he’d smelled something sensuous. “Oh, Edie, your fear is intoxicating. I’m just”—he placed his lips against her ear—“eating it up.” He moved and she felt some relief, but she was still afraid, as he sat atop the stool next to her. She didn’t turn to face him. “Oh, Edie?” he called out, and then trailed cold-tipped fingers across her arm, causing gooseflesh to rise. “Edie, look at me.”
Despite her fear, she managed a slight turn, and looked into his dark, gray eyes.
He smiled. “That’s better. Do you know what would happen to you in a mental asylum, Edie? Hmm?”
She refused to answer.
“Answer me,” he growled.
She yelped, and then said, “No,” in a weak voice.
“It’s called a lobotomy,” he informed in a normal tone, then lifted his hand, and jabbed the tip of his cold finger into her temple. She winced at the pain, but he ignored her suffering. “They go inside your little brain, and they remove all the craziness from you.” He pulled his finger away, and then with his other, formed a pair of scissors in front of her eyes. “Snip, snip, snip, Edie. That’s what they’ll do. They’ll cut away all that insanity.” He grinned. “And then, you’ll be as right as rain.” He threw his hands up in the air. “Your sanity restored.” He wobbled his hand. “Well, there have been complications…death and such,” he added, matter-of-fact.
Edie was shivering and her heart was racing. “Is-is that what you want them to do to me? Do-do you want me…dead?”
“No, no, my sweet.” Russell held her face in his cold hands. “I won’t allow anyone to hurt you.”
“Really?” she asked meekly.
Russell nodded and smiled. “Yes, my sweet, because you see…I want to hurt you. Yes, I want to pick and probe and pierce your brain to my fullest desires. And when you’re broken, so severely broken, then I’ll kill you.” He leaned forward and kissed her lips. His were cold as the dead. “Now…shall we begin?”
She found some courageous strength and tore herself away from his grasp. She ended up falling on the floor.
“Edie, are you all right?”
She looked up to see Russell. He was bent over, staring at her with wide, caring eyes. The shadowy mask was gone.
“I…I fell.”
She hesitated at his offer of help, but eventually accepted it, finding the horror that she’d been subjected to was gone. Russell’s touch on her skin was pleasantly warm. He held her in his arms, a most unprofessional thing to do. Yet she didn’t care and began to sob. She wrapped her arms around his chest and buried her face against his shirt. He didn’t push her away, instead holding her closer, massaging her back.
He said softly, “It’s all right, Edie, it’s all right,” over and over against her hair.
“I’m…going…crazy,” she said between sobs.
“No, you’re not. Don’t think that. You just need time; time to adjust. I’m here for you.”
Gently, she pushed him away, and reluctantly, he let her go. “I am crazy,” she countered. “Earlier, you were saying the most awful and scary things, but I know you’re not like that. You’re sweet and good. I imagined it. My mind isn’t mine own any more, Russell.
Like you said, it’s treacherous and it’s betrayed me. I should commit myself, have that lobotomy. Maybe I’ll die. That’d be nice.”
Russell pulled her to him, his face masked in worry. “Please, Edie, don’t talk like that. What’s this lobotomy business? Your death? You’re not going to commit yourself to an insane asylum!” He held onto her, but turned his head toward the hallway, and said, “Where’s your uncle? He needs to know what you’re going through.”
She panicked and shook Russell, causing him to turn his face back toward her. “No, no, please, don’t! Please don’t tell him or anyone else!”
She reached up and kissed his warm lips. She’d never kissed a boy before—much less a man—much less her teacher.
Russell was wide-eyed, shocked. He licked his lips. “What’d you do that for?” he asked in a husky tone.
She withdrew from his embrace and shrugged. “I panicked. I guess I did it to…entice you…so that you wouldn’t tell anyone.” She cringed. “Oh, I’m sorry. Please don’t tell anyone about that either.”
He licked his lips again. “It’s okay.” He gave her a small smile. “It’ll be our secret. And not just the…kiss…well, about everything. I don’t care what you tell me, Edie, I’ll never get you into trouble.”
She bit her lip, and then asked, “Are you like this with all your students?” even though she was confident that she knew the answer.
Russell shook his head. “No, Edie, I…” He trailed off, raking his fingers through his hair, and then continued, “I feel a connection to you that I can’t explain. I noticed it when you first came into my class.”
“Is that why you kept staring at me?”
He gave her a shy smile. “Sorry.” His smile faded. “I just…I saw you and…I know what you’re thinking: ‘he’s a pervert,’ but no, that’s not it. I just sensed you were in trouble, needed someone, and I felt this…pull to help.” He raked his fingers through his hair again. “This is going to be…difficult. I’m your teacher. You’re my student. People will talk. I shouldn’t come to your house anymore. We’ll talk but at school with my door open like I’d intended.” He sighed. “I shouldn’t have come here. I should leave now.”
She didn’t argue, knowing it was the right decision. She couldn’t take any more accusations, not after what’d happened with Rochelle and the scarf.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.
“Don’t forget, pop quiz,” he said with a smile. “Don’t tell the others.”
She smiled back. “It’ll be our secret.”
They both frowned at that, realizing something very problematic.
Russell said, “I just hope our secrets don’t ruin us.”
“Me too,” she agreed.
****
Her uncle still hadn’t come out of hibernation.
She ate a light supper of two pieces of toasted bread, and then retreated to her room. Uncle Landon must have smoked an entire carton of cigarettes by the time Russell had arrived and left. The whole house was how she imagined a bar smelled like, mingled with a 24 hour coffee house, if such a place existed. The cigarette smoke was the most potent. That was why every morning, she doused herself from head-to-toe in perfume, so she wouldn’t smell like a pool hall when she went to school. Of all the things to accuse her of (e.g. murder) she hadn’t been accused of smoking.
In her room, she heard her uncle pad to the kitchen. He grumbled something, poured the cold coffee out into the sink, and then prepared a new pot. The machine growled and hissed, and her uncle kept mumbling about people she didn’t know. She assumed that they were the characters in his story.
She strained her ears to listen and heard a man possessed with a dark imagination:
“Jenny goes up the stairs even though the reader knows you shouldn’t go up the stairs…that’s what makes it all so nerve-wracking…her boyfriend, Khalid, is the prime suspect—he’s been acting weird lately—but he’s just the misdirection for the real killer…someone from Jenny’s past…someone she’d never expect…someone who’s altered his appearance…someone who’s waiting for her…just aroun
d the corner...”
Jeez, Uncle Landon! Where do you come up with this stuff?
She heard her uncle pad back to his room, mumbling still, and then his door closed. A few seconds later, the sound of his fingers flying across the keyboard could be heard.
Unfortunately the upstairs part of the house was being renovated, and Edie lived downstairs, as did her uncle. Fortunately she had an iPod, so she plugged in her ear buds and cranked up the music, drowning out her uncle’s nightmarish fiction.
She was sitting on her bed, copying Russell’s lecture into her notebook. She’d already removed the-you’re-going-crazy-page and had thrown it into the trash. It was evidence of her insanity and she didn’t want to look at it anymore. She wished that she could throw away the kiss she’d given Russell too. It hadn’t been bad, as kisses go. She thought that Russell’s lips had even moved against hers, kissing her back.
Nah, that was ridiculous. He wouldn’t do that. He was her teacher. She was his student. Yet…she remembered his lips on hers; warm, comforting lips.
Before, when she’d obviously been hallucinating, his lips had been cold, unfeeling, and threatening. The things he’d said—or what she’d imagined he’d said—were so awful, it was hurting her head just thinking about them. Mental asylum. Lobotomy. Snip, snip, snip. Kill. That hadn’t been Russell, and as far as she knew, Russell wasn’t suffering from a multiple personality disorder. She was the one with the mental illness.
Russell had denied that was true, but it seemed to be the only explanation for all the crazy events that’d happened to her. After she’d lost her parents and had moved to new town, her mind must have snapped. She had gone off her rocker, off the deep end, loony, psycho, in la-la land. Now she was adrift, a boat with a paddle, and she didn’t see anyone rescuing her anytime soon. She’d have to manage her insanity on her own, hoping and praying it would go away like a bruise that eventually faded.
She sighed and was startled to see her own breath. She looked down at her arm and saw gooseflesh. She’d already finished copying her psychology notes, and she pushed the notebook and papers aside. Shivering, she wrapped another blanket around her.
Coldhearted (9781311888433) Page 8
