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

by W. C. Anderson

  On one morning out of dozens that began with me on my way to Mr. Oxley’s office to turn in some files, I narrowly missed running straight into Lyle, who had his head buried in a stack of papers.

  “Hey!” he shouted, annoyance in his voice, when he finally looked up at me. “You never stopped by my office! I had everything ready and waiting for weeks...”

  Oh, I sighed mentally. I’d completely forgotten. Too many balls up in the air at the moment, no way to keep them all up there.

  “Sorry, Lyle,” I began with genuine regret, “I totally forgot. Can I come by your office now? I really would like to see what you’ve got.”

  “Not my office,” he said more quietly, looking over his shoulder. “Meet me down at the coffee shop. Twenty minutes.” The solemn tone in his voice surprised me.

  I nodded, brow furrowed.

  Twenty-nine minutes later I was sitting alone in the coffee shop, sipping a gingerbread latte. Lyle tended to get really absorbed in his work and was arguably more of an easily distracted daydreamer than I am, if such a thing is possible, so I half-expected him to stand me up. When I heard a commotion at the door, however, I saw Lyle picking up some papers he’d apparently dropped. He hurriedly picked up the last of them and burst his way into the shop. He placed an order for a triple espresso before rushing over to join me at the table.

  He busied himself organizing his research in silence while I watched and waited. I was impressed and astonished by the amount of work he’d put into this. It must’ve taken a considerable amount of time. I immediately had questions to ask, but Lyle is very methodical and meticulous; he wouldn’t have appreciated any interruption breaking his routine, so I allowed him to finish. As soon as his name was called and his espresso retrieved, the murder briefing commenced.

  “What you’re looking at here is a further break-down of my early, crude analysis.” He gestured, pointing to this newer, more sophisticated-looking series of charts and graphs. He gave a very long, very detailed speech. I politely refrained from looking at my watch, though I longed to. The gist of his painstaking hard work was that he had pinpointed the culprit to somebody at our semiconductor partner, or anyone whose work was connected. That part I’d already worked out for myself, given that only one affiliate involved production, but that basically meant anyone and everyone in our office could be affected. All of us have knowledge of their business, and every job revolves around it somehow.

  I left him that afternoon with a pounding headache.

  A blank sheet of parchment awaited me at my front door. I eyed the neighbors suspiciously. Bruce Vaughn yelled for me to pull my damn weeds instead of standing around all day. With a salute and a poorly disguised grimace, I slipped into the house.

  The next two hours were consumed examining the mysterious parchment, with no result. Even my music—the one thing in the world that never fails to give me solace—was not going as well as I’d hoped. Two nights earlier I’d thrown my guitar out the back door in a frustrated rage. Luckily only the strings had been damaged. It’s the one instrument I can’t seem to master. Don’t get me wrong, I can play a few chords on it just fine. But the song, the song that haunts me, for unknown reasons I can’t make it sound right on the guitar. The clarinet, violin, harpsichord, and piano came so easily, but the guitar—it’s another matter. Of course, like all of my other hobbies, the one instrument that would actually be cool to play I suck at.

  This music in my soul threatens to kill me if I can’t find a way to let it out. As soon as I’ve mastered one instrument, I’m compelled to move on to another—moving farther toward to what I’m not sure. I have an entire bookshelf overflowing entirely with music of my own composing. I’m convinced that if I could hold a tune with my voice, this search would be unnecessary. But, as it is, my singing is so bad that people near me actually turn up the volume just to drown it out.

  I restrung the guitar, sat down with my guitar books, sucked up the frustration, and went to work.

  The proceeding two weeks flew by faster than ever.

  14.

  Dear Jack,

  I ran off the road driving to work this morning. What I remember hearing was a loud train horn blare. I was so startled I lost control and spun off Hendricks Avenue into someone’s yard—luckily before I reached the river. I cannot even recall getting dressed or driving to that point. Here I sit at my desk—unable to comprehend what’s happening to me.

  Evangeline

  15.

  The following day was Saturday, and I felt adventure calling. Adventure was just what I needed to shake off this gloom. My dad used to take Chris and me down to Gainesville as kids to watch the Gators and go exploring. I drove the two hours to Gainesville with such a feeling of lightness that I even dared to hope—just for a moment—that things could get better.

  Where else could I go but to The Reggae Shack for lunch? I’d been dreaming of their chicken curry for ages. The mixture of spices, plantains, and succulent chicken was delectable. An aroma of roasting meat and curry saturated my hair and clothing wonderfully. After devouring every bite, I washed the meal down with very strong sweet tea. I humorlessly considered licking my plate; there were too many onlookers.

  After tinkering in a few of the more Bohemian downtown shops, I headed to Devil’s Millhopper for a short hike. The Millhopper is a giant sinkhole, at the bottom of which is something of a miniature rainforest. At the right season, streams trickles down the walls, creating the feeling of being surrounded by a series of cascading waterfalls. The water disappears into the earth through crevices at the bottom; no one knows for sure where it goes.

  More than 200 steps down into the earth, I reach bottom. In nature I always find amelioration of spirit—a connectivity with something I can’t quite put into words. The drudgery of my daily routine constantly robs me of this feeling—something that should be a natural part of life—and as a consequence I have to go out looking to get it back. Today it took going 120 feet below the earth’s surface into a geological wonder, but I managed the restoration I sought.

  Snapping photos of the surrounding limestone waterfalls and delicate ferns to refresh my memory on less naturalistic days, I heard an odd thudding sound coming from the direction of the stairs. I turned just in time to see a man falling down the last flight, landing at the bottom with a very unnatural sounding crack. His neck twisted in my direction disturbingly, his eyes lifeless.

  I swore aloud.

  Fortunately the Gainesville authorities are unfamiliar with me, and other hikers had seen the poor man fall. I wasn’t even questioned. My state—which was alternately catatonic and expletive-laden—was attributed to shock.

  Hands shaking uncontrollably when I got back to my car, I shuffled through the music on my iPod. Only the hard stuff would do. Most of the music I love defies labeling. Several groups have industrial qualities but can’t really be put into that category. What unites them is more rawness of emotion and a haunted quality that I crave. After a few songs, the pieces of my soul pulled back together somehow. I settled on a breathtaking song by Ministry before beginning the drive home.

  16.

  I don’t remember the point at which I finally closed my eyes. Usually I do. I remember the moment at which I either make a conscious decision to close my eyes or just give up because I’m too tired to fight. On this night I must’ve finally been overtaken by sleep sometime shortly before dawn.

  I awoke with a sharp gasp for air, the intake of it so sudden that my throat immediately burned raw. After a few moments of reflexive coughing, I found the outside world was dark. The clock said 10 p.m. I’d slept an entire day. I threw off the covers as my stomach growled.

  In the refrigerator I found my last sacred batch of green chile and immediately began preparing breakfast burritos. Scrambled eggs, potatoes, bacon, and green chile to top it off—what could be better? It’s so hard for me to get green chile here in Florida, but I simply can’t live without it in my homemade salsa or green chile pork roast. Rece
ntly I discovered hatch-chile.com, where I can have the fire-roasted delight shipped directly from Hatch, New Mexico, to my doorstep. When I asked for it at the local grocery stores, they thought I was asking for green chili, thinking me crazy for wanting green meat and beans. No one I’ve talked to in Florida can understand what all my fuss is over a pepper. Green chile is a staple in New Mexico—you can get it absolutely everywhere including on your hamburger or pizza at chain restaurants—and I miss it dearly. In Albuquerque, on the other hand, they think all we eat down south is fried chicken grease, and make relentless fun about grits being disgusting. (They are not.)

  Can’t I like both places? I’ve often asked. Furrowed brows and headshakes indicate the answer is no.

  Scarfing down the breakfast burrito, I stared at the stupid parchment on my kitchen table, imagining at this point that it was some kind of joke. Until—I remembered something I’d read in a story long ago about the ways different inks can become visible. Weak moonlight glowed from the window. I snatched the parchment and ran outside.

  Holding it up to the moonlight, at first there was no visible change. But gradually, silver-blue characters began to take shape as the parchment soaked up the soft lunar glow. Within moments, the following message appeared:

  G+*V Z;@!*D> =;Z*DXVZ*@ >+* *<*@ K@?Q+> K—V>+* D-XQ+> ;=>*@ Q?=>

  T?*D D;=*TN*V>-K/*Z+?ZZ*V G;>*@D @XV /T;&!Z*;>+ ;VZ T?Q+>Z;@! ;VZ Z;N

  ;TT D>?TT ;Q;?VD> >+* V?Q+>G+*V T?Q+> DT-GTN =;Z*D?V Z;@!V*DD –V* ;T- V#G?>+ BX@*V*DD -= +*;@>;TT B?*&*D K;Z* G+-T*

  A cipher? I was much too tired to think clearly, but the pent-up excitement from weeks of waiting gave me just the burst of wild, manic energy I needed.

  After counting the characters, I deduced “*” was the most common, occurring no less than 28 times. I sat down in front of my laptop and Googled the frequency of letters in the English alphabet, with the following result: e t a i n o s h r d l u...

  I plugged “e” in the place of “*” and settled in for a very long night.

  Google also lead me to the knowledge that “the” is the most common English language word. Therefore, “>+e” must logically be it. Which led me to two more letters: “>” = “t” and “+” = “h.” Several hours—and much trial and error—later, I had arrived at a key. I seriously considered calling Lyle on several occasions, but I felt a need to solve this thing on my own. After plugging in the last of the corresponding letters, the message was revealed:

  When darkest night falls

  Under the ever bright moon

  The sought after gift

  Lies safely entombed.

  Hidden water runs black

  Death and light

  Dark and day

  All still against the night.

  When light slowly fades

  In darkness one alone

  With untainted heart

  All pieces made whole.

  Unfortunately staring, rubbing my temples, and the entire Lost Souls album by Doves failed to make its meaning any clearer. The only decipherable bit I arrived at was found in the first line: a full moon. Other than that, the rest was a load of gibberish.

  Days passed, and still I made no progress. In this, the internet was no help. The cursor on my laptop blinked unhelpfully. Only the ringing of the phone pulled me back from one of my daydreams.

  “Can I speak to Evangeline?”

  “This is she,” I replied cautiously.

  “Do you have you have a brother named Chris?”

  “Yeah….”

  “I’m the manager here at the Palace Saloon in Fernandina Beach? You’re brother’s had a bit too much to drink. He’s… disturbing the customers. Before he drank so much he seemed like a really good guy. Told him I wouldn’t call the cops if someone could come get him.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

  “We’ll be waiting.”

  Forty-one minutes later I stepped into the Palace Saloon. I hadn’t been here in years. Being the oldest saloon in Florida and the supposed haunt of deceased pirates—of course it has long been a family favorite. The mahogany bar is 40 feet long and lit with gas lamps. The ceiling is embossed tin. Nearly every time I’ve been inside Billie Holiday was playing.

  I found Chris slouched in a booth. His car was nowhere to be seen and I couldn’t get out of him how he’d gotten down here. Some of the friendlier barflies helped me get him into my car without uttering a word. I nodded a silent thank you.

  In the car he muttered nonsensically about me always having to take care of him.

  “Not true,” I reassured him over and over.

  In response, he turned to me and said, “You could never finish you’re treasure-ghost hunting with Nicky when we were kids—you always had to turn back and look after me.” He would never admit this sober.

  “Also, not true,” I remind him.

  “Don’t tell Dad I got drunk again.”

  “Why would I tell dad?”

  By the time we get to his apartment, he’s forgotten all about it. I get him tucked in bed, prepare some chicken soup with what I can salvage from the fridge, and make iced tea for tomorrow morning. Any other time, I’d have stayed the night on the couch and we may have even watched old movies once he’d sobered up. The next day would’ve been spent going out to breakfast and sightseeing in Savannah. But today was no ordinary day.

  I manage two or three hours’ sleep on the couch before checking on Chris, who was luckily sleeping—vomit-free—and snoring soundly. I tiptoed out the door.

  Of course Chris would’ve gone to breakfast and put up with me if I asked him, but he wouldn’t have been his usual happy-go-lucky self. He would’ve sulked and mumbled through the entire day. Not because he was embarrassed from a night of drunken debauchery—because I know Chris and he doesn’t get embarrassed.

  He would be a mess all day because today is December 7th—the anniversary of the exact day our mother was taken away.

  I listened to Not Your Fault by AWOLNATION the entire way home.

  I could not have slept for very long. Yet before I was fully awake, a strange thought began to grow in my mind. When Nicky and I were kids, there was a lot of talk about lost treasure in the swamps and wilderness. Treasure hunters scoured the banks of Black Creek and the St. Johns searching for lost loot, supposedly buried under a waterfall, though nothing substantial was ever found. We had even looked for it ourselves in the woods where we played. Our favorite place was deep in the forest—a place where streams merged together and disappeared into the earth, the sounds of an underground waterfall fueling our imaginations. The Palace Saloon and talking to Chris had jarred something deep inside my memory. I huddled under the covers until I’d achieved a sufficient level of warmth before discarding them to hunt for a calendar.

  The next full moon was two nights away. My sign had finally arrived. I grudgingly admitted that only a true moron would’ve been able to miss it, and all the preceding worry had been needless. Now, instead of worrying, I occupied myself with preparations.

  On the first night of the full moon, my quest was underway. I don’t know if it’s common knowledge or not, but trudging through a muddy swamp in the middle of the night causes you to involuntarily take stock of your life. First I need to examine why I call in sick periodically. I sort of need to recharge—maintaining the appearance of normalcy is at times excruciating. I can only keep up with my daily routine for so long before I need time to myself to focus on one of my little projects. It’s a fragile facade that I can’t really maintain for very long. I think my record was a month, but sometimes I can only make a week or a few days at a time. Luckily, I can work on research at home to catch up if I need to, so I’ve been able to make it work. I don’t think that’s so pathetic—just the price I pay for trying to seem normal. All that effort would take its toll on anyone eventually.

  Actually, maybe it’s a little pathetic. It’s funny how, when you’re just trying to get by the best way you can and you’re caught up just in sur
vival, you don’t realize a lot of things. I definitely didn’t realize how I came across to people at work. Aloof? Really? I just wanted to keep things private. It never occurred to me that people would view that as snobbery or even hostility or contempt. And then there are the pictures. Tangible proof that I am not really living. So what was the point of this facade really, anyway? It clearly wasn’t working the way I’d intended. Now I do have a purpose, to see this thing through, but before that, what did I really have? Sir Talbot was right about that, my dog really was the last thing.

  So for quite a few years now, I’ve been doing absolutely nothing: just treading water. It’s kept me alive, kept me from sinking, from drowning, but it’s also kept me from reaching all of the destinations I imagined reaching by the time I turned 35. Funny how you don’t realize the years are passing, not until something happens to snap you out it, take you out of yourself to see things from someone else’s perspective. I thought I’d have been practicing advocacy law for awhile by now, and be immersed in rewarding work, changing the world for the better. Instead, I’m... doing what exactly? I’m still not too sure.