The Muse's Revenge Part III
Last week we left Rita safe at home in her bed. Now it's J.S. Marlo's turn. Will she too escape the evil muse's trap? Or not?
Marlo
turned left on the gravel path and followed it as it twisted and turned in the
dark. There were no bars on her cell phone, but she still used it as a
flashlight. She walked by cabin nine then cabin twenty. From there, she veered into
an entrance that ended in front of tiny cabin two.
It
appeared whoever affixed those numbers to the doors had picked them at random
from a bag. She wondered if the others had as much trouble finding their
cabins.
In
the night, something growled and leaves ruffled.
“This
is getting ridiculous—and spooky.”
If
venturing alone in the dark was part of the workshop, it’d achieved the desire effect.
Creepy critters, real or imaginary, crawled up and down her spine, chasing her
fatigue. At this rate she wouldn’t sleep for weeks.
She
continued on a grassy path sneaking around cabin sixteen. No lights illuminated
the interior. It was either unoccupied or the guests were asleep—unless there
was no electricity.
“That
would be just great if I can’t recharge my phone.”
The
gate of the cemetery crossed the grassy path. It was unlocked. Farther ahead, a
white glow caught her eyes. She pushed the gate and advanced solemnly between
the graves. On her right, petrified wood formed rustic crosses. She approached the
closest one. The crude engraving still visible on the horizontal plank
astonished her.
Hadrian
Drake 12 4/8 17 – 12 25/11 62
It
took her a few seconds to decipher it.
Hadrian Drake, born on August 4, 1217,
died on November 25, 1262.
The
man had been forty-five when he drew his last breath. It was too bad the
inscription didn’t list a cause of death. History fascinated Marlo, and she was
curious to know how he died—and how he lived.
The
comforting odor of a campfire teased her nostrils.
She
continued toward the glow. As she drew nearer, it took the shape of a fluorescent
tombstone.
“How
strange. And beautiful.”
The
inscription shone a brighter shade of white and the lamb on top of the stone
seemed to curl into a tighter ball.
Aaron
Clark (3 May 2011 - 10 Nov 2015)
“Four
years old? Poor little guy.”
A
light suddenly flooded the cemetery. It came from a lantern attached to the
front of a cabin edging the graveyard. Two big bronzed numbers, two and nine,
were nailed to the door.
“Cabin
twenty-nine? Really?”
The
skeleton key rattled in the hole, and after some jiggling, it unlocked the
door. Marlo entered the cabin. Flames sizzled inside the fireplace built in the
corner of a cozy room. She closed the door, and as she locked it, she noticed a
light switch near the handle. The flick of a wrist later, a lone bulb shone
over the bed pushed against the windowless wall.
A
rectangle box wrapped with a red ribbon rested on two pillows. Banshee had
mentioned chocolates. Hoping it wasn’t a lie, Marlo unwrapped the box, lifted
the lid, and removed the foiled paper.
The
rich aroma tantalized her senses.
Eight
chocolates beckoned her to sink her teeth into their dark exterior. Four were
decorated with swirls on top while the other fours were carved with a letter.
A-E-S-V.
As
she tasted a swirly one, an orange cream center, she mentally scrambled the
letters to form words. She came up with two possible combination: vase and save.
The
orange swirlies were her favorite, but she still devoured lemon cream A,
buttercream E, raspberry cream S, and chocolate cream V. Though she’d eaten
enough for tonight, she removed the second foiled paper to reveal a second
layer. Three chocolates had swirlies while the other fives were carved with
more letters. A-A-N-O-R
“Let’s
see...”
She
moved the chocolate letters in the box.
“R-O-N-A?
A Rona?” Back home, Rona was the name of a hardware store. “O-A-R? An oar?”
Though it was a possibility, she felt she was missing the boat.
“Those
two As are...” A name fleeted across her mind. “Aaron?” Then the two layers
formed a sentence. “Save Aaron?”
The
only Aaron she’d ever heard of was the young boy buried near the cabin, and he appeared
beyond saving.
Marlo
didn’t know when or where they were supposed to meet in the morning for that
workshop, but before joining them, she would have another look at that
fluorescent tombstone.
~ * ~
Birds
awoke Marlo at dawn. To appease her growling stomach, she emptied the last
layer of chocolates. Hopefully a more substantial breakfast waited for them somewhere.
After
a quick shower under lukewarm water, she donned a polar jacket, grabbed her
purse and left her cabin.
A
thin layer of frost simmered over the cemetery while a chilly mist clouded the
blue sky. She approached Aaron’s grave. The carved letters added a touch of
finality to the stone. He’d died on November 10, 2015.
“Almost
a year ago.”
She’d
found no other clues in the chocolate box. The circumstances surrounding his
death remained a mystery. Baffled by the message, she caressed the little lamb
protecting the young boy’s final sleep. Warm to the touch, the stone generated
tiny electric shocks that sizzled through her skin.
“Strange.”
A
bright orange spark lit up the eyes of the lamb. Marlo’s gasp of surprise was
lost in the thunderous blasts of energy gushing through her body and
short-circuiting her mind.
At
last, oblivion embraced her.
~
* ~
The
wind battering her face roused her senses. Wincing, Marlo cracked an eye open.
Different
shades of white assailed her vision. She made a fist and trapped something cold
and wet. As she propped herself on her knees, she unclasped her hand. The
slushy snow chilling her palm fell to the frozen ground.
“What
on earth happened?”
She
took in her surrounding.
Flurries
swirled in the air at the mercy of the wind and a layer of snow covered the
cemetery. White carnations tied with a white ribbon rested near the divot her
head had created in the snow.
Puzzled
by the sudden change of weather and the apparition of the flowers, she gazed up
toward the lamb and gasped in shock. The lamb had disappeared, replaced by a
gargoyle with outstretched wings.
She
jumped to her feet, and as she stepped away from the grotesque statue, she
crushed the flowers.
“Darn.”
Distressed over her carelessness, she picked up the pathetic little bouquet. A
card was attached to the ribbon with a paperclip.
We miss you
Love
Martha & Aaron
“Aaron?”
Wasn’t Aaron the dead boy? Confused, she reread the inscription.
George
Aaron Clark
Beloved
Husband & Father
(7
December 1973 - 8 November 2012)
“What’s
going on here?”
Aaron’s
grave had been replaced by George’s. The man had died in his late thirties. The
greeting card suggested George was a close relative of Martha and Aaron.
“Probably
Martha’s husband and Aaron’s father.”
The
flowers looked fresh.
“The
boy’s name wouldn’t be on the card if he were dead.”
She
flipped the card and was stunned by the stamp at the back.
“Beautiful
Bouquet on Ellice Avenue in Winnipeg, Manitoba?”
Though
she hadn’t set foot in Winnipeg in a decade, she hadn’t forgotten about the
flower shop where she’d picked up the bouquets for her brother’s wedding. He’d
married a local girl before moving east. Marlo had never lived in Winnipeg—almost
being posted there didn’t count—but she’d enjoyed its hospitality many times
over the years to attend her daughters’ swim meets, her son’s hockey games, and
to visit the zoo with her granddaughter.
Relieved
not to have lost her purse, she checked its content. Her wallet and her phone,
along with its charger, were inside. Money and credit cards inflated the former,
but the battery of the latter was dead.
“I
need to hail a cab.” And stop somewhere
to eat before I visit that flower shop.
~
* ~
Amazingly,
her credit card wasn’t declined when Marlo paid for breakfast at Tim Hortons.
She
wondered if the workshop had been a figment of her imagination or if this
escapade in Winnipeg was a weird dream in which she was trapped. Either way, she
felt compelled to investigate Aaron’s mystery.
The
flower shop in which a teenage girl watered plants near a window hadn’t changed.
“I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“No
rush, sweetheart.”
A
lovely smile spread across the girl’s face. She set a green watering can on the
floor before approaching the counter. “What can I do for you?”
“When
I visited the cemetery this morning, I stumbled on two teenagers playing catch
with a bouquet of white carnations they’d snatched from a grave.”
The
girl grimaced in disgust. “That’s awful.”
“Yes.”
The advantage of being a writer was that she could spin a believable tale at
the drop of a hat. “I chased them, but they escaped through the gate before I gave
them a piece of my mind. Anyway, in their haste, they dropped the bouquet. This
card was attached to it.”
Marlo
presented the card she’d removed from the bouquet and handed it to the young
lady who flipped it between her fingers.
“This
is ours.”
“Which
is why I’m here. I’d like to buy an identical bouquet and return it to its
rightful departed owner, except I’m not sure from which grave the teenagers
stole it. Would you by any chance remember those people, Martha and Aaron?”
Fine
lines creased the girl’s forehead. “White carnations you said?”
“Yes.
There were maybe a dozen. They were tied together with a large white ribbon.
They didn’t look more than a day or two old.”
“Let
me see...” Her fingers danced on a small keyboard attached to an iPad.
Propped
on an elbow, Marlo leaned against the counter to get a better view of the
screen.
“I
have a Martha Roswell. She ordered ten white carnations by phone on the 7th
and paid to have them delivered directly to the cemetery.”
While
the girl provided her with the details, Marlo’s attention focused on the name
and address at the top of the screen. Martha
Clark Roswell. The last name puzzled her, though she supposed it was
possible the woman was George’s sister and not his wife. Regardless, she
committed the address to memory.
“Phil,
our delivery guy, dropped them off yesterday on George Aaron Clark’s grave.”
Marlo
had requested a receipt from Tim Hortons for the express purpose of looking at
the date. Today was November 9th, 2015.
Yesterday
had been the third anniversary of George’s death, and tomorrow signaled Aaron’s
last day.
“If
you’d be kind enough to arrange for a new bouquet to be delivered as soon as possible,
I’ll pay for it and nobody needs to know about the incident.”
The
girl scrutinized her with a peculiar expression. “Are you sure? I mean that’s
very kind, but it wasn’t your fault the grave was vandalized. You shouldn’t be
paying for it.”
Marlo
presented her credit card. Paying was the least she could do after accidentally
ruining the bouquet. “This is the right thing to do.”
~
* ~
The
fifteen-minute cab ride cost more than the flowers.
Marlo
landed in a residential area as a school bell rang. Kids hurried across the
street to a red brick building two blocks down. Brakes squealed and horns
resounded, but no vehicles collided with little bodies.
She
walked on the sidewalk looking for house number twenty-nine. The coincidence
unsettled her, but unlike the cabin, the houses stood in numerical order.
The
elderly cabbie had stopped in front of house one-hundred-twenty-nine instead of
twenty-nine. She chalked up his error on her accent, on some hearing
impairment, or a combination of both.
In
front of house thirty-one, a middle-aged woman covered her bushes with burlap.
Marlo approached her.
“Your
bushes will be all toasty for winter.”
The
woman granted her a cordial smile. “That’s the idea. May I help you?”
“Yes,
but don’t worry, I’m not selling anything.”
The
statement elicited soft chuckles from the woman. “That’s good because I’m not
buying.”
“My
name is Jane Smith. I’m...I was George Clark’s older sister. Foster sister,”
Marlo quickly added in case their ethnicity differed. “We lost touch over the
years, but I recently learned he passed away. Someone gave me the address next
door, but I’m a bit nervous about knocking after so long.” She fidgeted with
her purse. “Is there anything useful you could tell me about his family before
I meet them?”
“Useful?
Yeah, run away.” As the woman straightened up to her full height, her gaze
darted right, left and center. “Your brother and Martha made such a lovely
couple, but then he died and she married that thug, Roswell. I used to see her
every day, smiling and happy. Now, I’m lucky to glimpse at her, and when I do,
she sports new bruises or broken bones and she cast her eyes.”
“He’s
beating her?” Imitating the neighbor, Marlo whispered. “What about Aaron?”
The
sadden expression settling over the woman’s face didn’t bode well. “Poor kid
has it worse than his mom.”
Appalled
by the situation, Marlo fought the urge to barge into the house and haul mother
and son out. “No one phoned the police?”
The
neighbor wrapped her arms around her tiny chest.
“It’s
not that simple. Roswell has connections with the crowd that ties concrete
blocks to people’s ankles. One day, Annette talked to Martha to convince her to
leave. She used to live at the end of the street.” She pointed at an empty
corner lot. “The next day, her house burned down. Lucky for her, she didn’t end
up at the bottom of a lake, but trust me, we all got the message.”
As
long as terror ruled the woman’s decisions, arguing with her was pointless. “I
understand.”
Determined
to help, Marlo walked down the street toward the school. Thinking the neighbor
would have refused to let her borrow her phone for fear of reprisal, she didn’t
bother asking. Instead she counted on the school secretary’s sense of duty, but
when she noticed the electrical outlets in front of the parking stalls, she plugged
her phone instead.
The
icon of a battery flashed on her screen. She waited a few more seconds then she
dialed.
“Nine-one-one.
What’s your emergency?”
~
* ~
Alone
in the park facing home twenty-nine, Marlo swept the snow from a bench and sat.
Her new jeans protected her buttocks from the cold, but she wished she’d packed
a winter jacket and a pair of gloves.
A
truck was parked in Roswell’s driveway and from time to time, she spotted
shadows moving behind the draped windows.
She’d
called Emergency Services an hour ago. By now, she’d expected a response, but
so far, nothing. As she toyed with the idea of calling again, a police cruiser
followed by a blue sedan drove up the street. The car stopped in front of Roswell’s
house while the cruiser parked behind the truck, blocking any escape route.
A
tall woman with long black hair exited the car. She met two police officers in
the driveway. One officer accompanied her to the door while the other stayed by
the truck.
The
door opened and a bare-chested man stepped on the porch. From the gestures he
made, he wasn’t happy at the visitors.
A
scuffle suddenly erupted between the man and the officer. The second officer intervened
and they subdued the man while the tall woman entered the house. A few minutes
later, she returned with a young child in her arms while fending a distraught
woman clawing at her sleeve.
Death
threats spewed out of the man’s mouth and sobs racked the woman’s body as the tall
woman departed with the child. When the officers gave the man a ride in the
cruiser, Marlo scuttled across the street to talk to the woman.
“Martha?”
“Go
away!”
Her
bloodshot eyes, dilated pupils, and erratic behavior spoke as adequately as the
bruises, scratches, and cigarette burns on her exposed skin.
~
* ~
Marlo
spent the afternoon seeking help for Martha only to be given the same answer
wherever she knocked. We can’t help
unless she wants to be helped.
Before
attempting to return home, she needed to make one last stop.
Children’s
Services was located in a brand new professional building in the industrial
district. Marlo paid the cabbie as the sun set over the city.
The
crowd she encountered in the lobby was leaving for the day, but someone spared
a moment to point her in the right direction. In the belly of the second floor,
Marlo knocked on an open door.
The
black-haired woman who took custody of Aaron sat behind a desk covered with
paper and folders. The nameplate identified her as Claire Huxley.
Warm
chocolate eyes gazed at Marlo. “Come in.”
“I’m
sure you’re eager to go home so I’ll be quick. I—”
“Please,
take your time.” Claire indicated a chair. “I already called my husband to let
him know I’d be late. So? What can I do for you?”
Feeling
at ease, Marlo introduced herself before leaning her purse against the leg of
the chair in which she sat.
“I’m
the woman who reported the abuse of Aaron Clark, the boy you rescued this
morning. You’re probably not allowed to tell me anything, but I’d very much
like to know he’ll be okay.”
A
kindhearted smile floated on Claire’s lips as she nodded slightly. “Unfortunately,
I can’t discuss my caseload. That being said, once I’m home tonight, I’ll share
a nice glass of wine with my husband. It’s a ritual after a rewarding day.”
Understanding
befell upon Marlo. “I hope you won’t get home too late.”
~
* ~
The
weight lifted from her shoulders, Marlo breezed through the deserted lobby and
exited into the night. Aaron was safe. She’d fulfilled her mission.
“I
deserve more chocolates.”
Big
snowflakes twirled in the light of the lampposts surrounding the parking lot. Only
one car remained, its color concealed by the snow. As she reached for her phone
to call a cab, she froze.
“My
purse?”
A
wave of panic washed over her until she remembered where she’d left it. Against the chair in Claire’s office.
She backtracked and pounded on the locked front door. When no one answered, she
looked up. Light illuminated Claire’s office.
“I
guess I’ll have to wait.”
To
keep warm, Marlo walked briskly around the parking lot, then she ventured in
the park adjacent to the building while keeping an eye on the window.
After
what felt like an eternity, darkness engulfed the office. She hurried toward
the building.
“Claire
Huxley?”
Startled,
Marlo slowed her pace. Claire paused in the parking lot where a hooded figure stood
near the car.
“Marlo?
Is that you?” Claire raised her arm. “I have your purse.”
A
detonation resonated in the air and Claire collapsed on the ground. A scream
escaped Marlo’s throat. She rushed toward the social worker.
“Claire?”
Blood
gushed from her head reddening the snow. Down on her knees, Marlo wrapped a
hand around Claire’s wrist. A weak pulse throbbed at the tip of her fingers.
“Stay
with me, Claire.”
Grabbing
her purse, then her phone, Marlo called nine-one-one. Beeps warned her to speak
fast before the battery died.
“Children’s
Services parking lot. A woman was shot. Hurry, plea—”
The
line went dead.
Something
ruffled, spiking the hair on Marlo’s nape. She looked up. Bile rose in her
throat.
The
shooter advanced toward her. A sudden gust of wind pushed the hood back as a second
gunshot resounded. Sharp pain blurred Marlo’s vision, obscuring the killer’s
face.
She
stumbled clutching her chest. Every nerve in her body tingled. As reality faded
away, her mind pondered the title of such a story—had she had the chance to
finish it.
Unscripted...
~
* ~
Water
dripping on her face then scorching pain stirred Marlo’s consciousness. She
opened her eyes. Through the rain, she recognized the cemetery, and at the edge,
cabin twenty-nine.
Too
weak to move, she stared in horror at the blood coating her fingers. Hoping her
fellow authors fared better, she called for them.
“Help...help...”
Her
faint cries were lost amid the graves.
Looks like not all of our authors were so lucky as Rita was. We have one more to go. Will Jenna fall victim to the muse, or escape with her life?
This week's piece was written by J.S. Marlo.
Awesome!
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