Beloved Evangeline (A Dark Paranormal Urban Fantasy Trilogy for Grown-ups - Book 1)

by W. C. Anderson

  Back then beloved was just about my favorite word. Now—I despise it.

  The three of us had been inseparable during that period of my childhood, those magical years between nine and 12 when life was so full of possibilities and adventure. Jonathan had been just as willing as Nicky to follow my pursuit to the ends of the earth. If their parents would’ve let them, they’d have joined me on my rooftop jumps and cemetery campouts. My quest was infused with a recklessness of which no sane parent would approve. Nicky came on the campouts only once or twice before her parents got wise.

  Similarly, my father wasn’t pleased when he found out what I’d been up to. I took to sneaking out of my room at least twice a week to go on my little jaunts. As a 10-year-old kid, I’d questioned bar and hotel proprietors, supposed haunted house owners, anyone I could find that had some ties to the supernatural. I dove from trees and rooftops, just to see if the experience would bring me closer to the otherworld. My dad found out when I sprained my ankle, and the neighbors squeamishly tattled that they’d seen me jump from the roof. I was grounded for something like six months. From then on I learned to keep a lower profile.

  Nicky, Jonathan, and I built forts and tree houses in the woods, studied the paranormal together with whatever books and reading materials we could get our hands on, and endlessly planned and strategized. (Three sizeable boxes filled with journals and research materials currently take up space in my attic.) After my dad whisked me and my brother away to New Mexico, I never saw or heard from Jonathan again. I tried my best not to think about how the ripples of my mother’s undoing, and my accompanying obsession with it, had erased my life’s natural course, washing away so much of what could have been.

  4.

  The party that night started at 7:00. At 7:15, I still had no clue what I was going to wear to a party I didn’t really want to go to in the first place. I absolutely hate going to big parties. Small gatherings I like just fine, but at big parties, I never feel like I fit in. A concerted effort is needed for me to be able to even interact at these things. I mean, obviously, after a drink or two, I can get by when I have to, but otherwise, I just don’t see the point.

  For tonight, I felt like I needed to look nice in order to feel confident and face whatever was coming. After discarding four or five outfits, I finally went back to my first choice: a black and white silk top with kimono sleeves, boot-cut jeans, and my favorite blood red high-heeled boots. At best I am something of a fancy tomboy. If I pick up something that doesn’t quite suit me, I feel like a wuss the entire day. I like beautiful things, but I’m also uncomfortable in anything too frilly or feminine. Recently, I’ve started forcing myself to wear a dress at least once every three months or so. This after I let something like two years elapse without wearing a skirt, and was then forced to wear one for a wedding. I spent the entire evening feeling like a very boring transvestite. No more, I decided.

  I appraised myself in the mirror, trying to decide whether to just suck it up and wear a skirt or not. No, I finally decided. I was happy with what I saw in the mirror. Sometimes, when I’m dressed up like this, I almost feel like I’m—not beautiful, exactly—but as close as I can come to it.

  I had been sort of peripherally worried that I wouldn’t be able to find the house—I’m not overly familiar with Ponte Vedra Beach—but that worry was needless. There seemed to be hundreds of cars spilling out of the driveway and down the street. I literally could not have missed it if I had been trying, finding the first open parking space half a mile or so down the street. There were people everywhere. I don’t think I’d ever been to a party with so many people before and couldn’t even imagine how you’d go about throwing something like this together. But it didn’t seem so bad, so many people together just having a good time. Why did I hate going to these things again?

  Just as I was walking in the house, I remembered exactly why I hated going to these things. There were so many people staring, it was overwhelming. How do you go about joining a conversation? Should I just stand here, or keep walking? My breathing suddenly accelerated—quick shallow breaths. Social panic was creeping in. Why do my arms suddenly feel so long and out of place? Maybe I should put my hands in my pockets. Thankfully I saw the bar area and headed that way, arms flapping awkwardly behind me.

  Walking with a drink in my hand felt much better. I at least looked like I had a purpose—the drink was just the prop I needed to complete the disguise of my actually belonging here. Besides, how can a vodka martini not make you feel better?

  Having just taken a generous sip of my drink, I felt my insides warming nicely. I felt good. Now if I could just find my people everything would be perfect. In trying to act casual while I scanned the party for a familiar face, I flipped my hair a little too confidently. I knew immediately it had been a mistake. Anytime, anywhere that I begin to get a little too big for my britches, I’m immediately knocked down a peg. Strut down the sidewalk because I’m having a good day, and I’m guaranteed to pay for it immediately. Within minutes, I’ll either realize that I just left my purse behind at the restaurant I patronized for lunch or someone will point out the rather unfortunate soy sauce stain on the back of my khakis.

  On this particular occasion something more subtle happened. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. The party music seemed to slow down. Everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion. Someone was staring at me; I could feel it. This was the price for flaunting my situational self confidence: someone—something—had taken notice. I had attracted attention, breaking my only real rule, and thus called out to the sinister, the nameless it I already knew was looking for me. Of course, me I no longer care about, but… all four of my precious friends are here. My slow-motion heartbeat echoed in my ears, overpowering all other sounds, as I turned slowly to face what was surely coming for me.

  “Hey Evangeline, over here!” Lyle Maximillian, rounding out the four precious remaining few, was waving excitedly and calling to me from the end of the bar.

  The party and music had resumed a normal tempo. No one else seemed to have noticed. I took an unsteady breath and tried to pull myself together.

  I smiled at Lyle, sincerely grateful. Most people at work think of him as a “nerd,” though that’s not a term I would ever use. I don’t believe in labeling people. Who am I to judge anyone else’s weirdness? At least he’s brave enough to be true to himself all the time. I get by with deception. Lyle’s shorter than me and slight. I don’t really think of him as being attractive or unattractive, but, to be fair, I really don’t think of anyone in those terms. He had his camera out and was clicking away.

  I’ve always enjoyed talking to him about music and movies. I don’t really have anyone else with whom I can ping those kinds of ideas around anymore, since Simon stopped conversing with me. Though Lyle and I don’t exactly have similar tastes, any conversation with a fellow connoisseur is more than welcome and just the kind of intellectual stimulation I crave.

  “Hey, Lyle. Thank God you’re here.” I exhaled and finally relaxed enough to take another sip of my martini—so good. “I was just about to lose it and go home.”

  “Tell me about it. I can only stand these yuppie phony types for so long before I want to hang myself. What are you doing here anyway, Evangeline? I mean, I’m glad you’re here, but I thought you didn’t associate with people like... Steve?” He made a face of disgust as he said the name, sort of lifting one side of his upper lip and scrunching his nose at the same time.

  I nodded deliberately. “Research. You know the jackass character that’s always in romantic comedies? Usually the jerky best friend of the love interest? Trying to find out if that stereotype was actually based on Steve.”

  Lyle snorted.

  “Why are you here, Lyle?”

  He rolled his eyes and lifted his glass. “Free booze, duh.”

  We talked for a bit, discussing the pros and cons of Wes Anderson and Rian Johnson. My current favorite directors—not Lyle’s. He’s die-hard classic d
irectors all the way, while my tastes border on indie mania. I did manage to sway him over to Aronofsky, though.

  On this occasion we were engaged in an intense conversation about Wes Anderson’s only flaw.

  “Don’t you think the female characters are kind of one-dimensional?”

  Lyle scratched his head.

  “Alright, maybe that’s too harsh. They’re just not as funny or as engaging to watch, I guess. The dialogue—the male characters—are so brilliant!” The martini was talking a bit more boisterously than I’m normally comfortable with, but right now, who cares? “I want to feel like I could be someone as quirky and interesting as Max Fischer or any one of the Whitman brothers. Shouldn’t I at least be able to hope to possess the raw natural potential of an eccentric, extraordinary protagonist?” I paused, mulling over the possibility that the direction the conversation had taken had nothing whatsoever to do with Wes Anderson.

  Lyle was just about to reply when we received a cat call from our crew; the look on his face suggested he was still skeptical about the concept of women being truly original characters. Then again, we weren’t really in his genre.

  We exchanged bemused glances before answering the call of our kind.

  Our little group was congregated near an enormous fireplace with a blazing fire. “I didn’t know you drank anymore, Evangeline?” chimed Gavin, pointing to my martini. “Off the wagon are we? Good for you.” Gavin raised his beer.

  I smiled and raised my glass in mock salute. Soon everyone else had raised their glasses, too.

  “A toast? Sweet!,” Lyle shouted, a little too loudly, over the music. “Can we all clink glasses?”

  And so we did. It was just that kind of night. The kind of night where everything just seems funnier somehow. Gavin was hilarious. Even Simon perked up a bit and was almost as funny as his usual self. Almost. We all talked and laughed together for so long, I was actually giddy. My right side was in literal pain from laughing so hard. Even with so many people around, I was actually having fun. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this good, the last time I’d really enjoyed myself like this. How long had it been? I honestly had no idea.

  I had almost forgotten what it was that I’d been dreading, until I saw Steve walking toward us, that is. And just like that, like an abrupt, metaphorical long and protracted record scratch, my face and mood drooped as soon as he appeared. Unfortunately, in my unguarded mood, my face betrayed me and showed the panic I felt. Several people sensed the sudden change in me and simultaneously turned around to discern the cause.

  “I know you weren’t planning to ignore your host all night, were you ladies?” Steve jibed as he got closer.

  “We just thought you liked your ladies better after they’d had a few drinks, that’s all, Steve.” Gavin smirked before downing the last of his beer.

  Steve gave a sarcastic smile back to Gavin, “I said ladies, not raging a-holes.”

  Several people gasped.

  “Hey, don’t be jealous, Steve,” Gavin replied casually, playing to the crowd. “Just because I’ve never had to buy a lady’s affection, that’s no reason to be rude.”

  I winced. There was a rumor of some to do between them awhile back over a girl. They’d both liked the same girl, but she hadn’t been interested in either of them. Gavin acted like it was no big deal, but I’m pretty sure he has very limited experience with rejection.

  Steve, with his fists clenched, took two quick steps toward Gavin. Surprisingly, Gavin’s face was redder and angrier than I’d ever seen it before.

  An awkward male tension silence followed. Clearly, a fight between them was eminent. I was frantically trying to brush off my de-escalation techniques, but my mind was completely void of any useful ideas. Steve outweighed Gavin by a good sixty pounds. I couldn’t’ help picturing my dear friend’s face swollen and bloodied.

  For want of anything better, I stepped between them, letting my martini glass slip from my fingers as I walked. Within seconds glass was shattering against the tile. Instantly, the tension diffused and people scattered in a rush to help clean up the mess.

  I muttered a very insincere-sounding, “Whoops.”

  Steve failed to notice. He turned to me instead, his used car salesman-like smile back in place in an effort to save face, “Evangeline, whatta you say we take that tour I promised?”

  I looked around nervously. What was I thinking? Steve had been ready to attack Gavin over nothing. Obviously, for once, my instincts were actually right. Maybe finding out what he knew wasn’t worth the price. I could just act like none of that had ever happened and leave.

  Lyle elbowed me in the ribs, whispering in my ear, “I wouldn’t go anywhere alone with him if I were you. What if he’s the Midnight Murderer?”

  My head jerked toward Lyle reflexively. His eyebrows were raised and his head was nodding, indicating seriousness, for Lyle, anyway.

  Great.

  “I’d like to see the house, too,” added Nicky quickly, sensing my hesitation, and the sudden, odd exchange between Lyle and me.

  “Super,” replied Steve, “When it comes to beautiful girls, the more the merrier, right?” He smiled widely as he held out an arm for each of us.

  The look of triumph on Steve’s face could not have been more obvious as he walked through the gigantic house with a girl on each arm. He was clearly relishing this as he bragged about all of the ridiculous the treasures in his house, “… the fireplace was imported from Italy... custom built archway... solid mahogany armoire from Portugal... 18th Century chaise from France...” I ordinarily love architecture and antiques, but I barely caught a word of it. I nodded every now and again even though I had no idea what he was saying.

  “So what do you think ladies?”

  “It’s... really something,” I said slowly. Apparently, I am all wit and eloquence these days.

  “Wow, Steve, have you always known this much about antiquities?” Nicky added in a sarcastic voice I knew well. She turned to me, smirking behind Steve’s back. I felt like kindred spirits again, just like we used to be. Steve, of course, took the bait and launched into a very condescending explanation of just how he’d come to know so much about antiquities and many, many other things.

  Memories flooded in, reminding me of how I’d allowed our friendship to emaciate. Nicky and I had spent a really large portion of our childhoods together, especially after my mother... went away. She had willingly gone along with me on my quests. In fact, I sort of dragged her around in my mania, my quest for answers and meaning. She was up for anything I suggested, no matter how crazy or dangerous, and she never once complained. She was with me always during those initial dark times. She’s the only person, aside from my brother, who has never treated me like I was different. Either she doesn’t see it, or my weirdness just doesn’t make any difference to her. This train of thought wasn’t helping my current situation, I realized, and I suddenly felt sick.

  Steve was still droning on about the house when I interrupted him, somewhat awkwardly, “I need to use the restroom.”

  After Steve finished escorting me to the restroom, I stood facing myself in the mirror for a good five minutes. I could just leave now, was the predominant thought. Though, there was still a small chance that maybe I could still pull this off, if I have the courage. Where would I go if I left here, anyway? Answer: I have absolutely no idea. It’s not like I have very much money or any ambition to start over from scratch someplace new or any real job skills to make up for either of those things. No, none of that matters, I thought, I’ll figure all that stuff out, somehow. I know what’s coming now, and I just don’t have the strength to live through it again.

  Finally, after feeling that staying in the bathroom any longer would be even more embarrassing than my behavior outside had already been, I splashed some water on my face (and underarms, please don’t tell anyone) and headed out. I had planned to sneak out, just leave without telling anyone, but luck is rarely on my side. Steve was waiting for me as soon
as I turned the corner. I ran right into him.

  “Whoa there, girl, we didn’t get to the highlight of the tour,” he said grabbing me by the arm and whispering, “You didn’t plan on leaving before we’d had our little chat, did you?”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. In a former life, I would’ve shaken my arm loose, said something like, “I don’t need to stick around to find out how little your ‘chat’ is,” and kept on walking, but—I couldn’t seem to muster the strength. This is for the best, probably, since hiding hasn’t been working out for me so well lately. My nightmares have been returning, and the strange accidents are also back. Maybe it was just not knowing whatever Steve knew about me that made me feel so oddly powerless, so out of control. Just the thought of everyone finding out—that thought alone was enough to almost shrivel me up into nothing.