Night Encounter and Vapor: A Paranormal Duet Read online

  With one mission in mind, he’d call my sister alone and let her spread the news. As he was speaking to her, at first his grief seemed genuine. I could hear her cries of anguish over the phone. If I could, I would visit her before I was finalized. Finalization comes about when vapors have settled their unfinished business, and I was hoping mine wouldn’t come too soon.

  Paul cried to Marie, telling her that we’d had a fight before I left the house. And then, although I shouted, “No! Don’t tell her that,” he couldn’t hear me and proceeded to give her the details of his affair with Beth. I tried to put my ear near the phone so I could hear Marie’s response because I knew she’d be furious with him. As selfish as they come, he’d only be thinking of himself. She must have said something to him about not wanting to hear the details because he gave up. My family wouldn’t be his audience, so he said good-bye, he’d let her know when the funeral was going to take place, and hung up the phone.

  Opening the pizza box for a slice, the news evidently hadn’t affected his appetite. I was sticking to him like glue, afraid I might miss something if I wasn’t vigilant, when I saw a look come over his face. He looked down at the paper plate he held in his hand, at the slice of pizza he’d placed there, and then at the box with the missing slices.

  Hesitating, I saw him glance over at the TV and then at the coffee table. Walking to the TV, he picked up the remote and pressed eject. The movie I’d stuck in the CD player slowly popped out. Looking down at the table with my untouched slice of pizza on the paper plate, I could almost see the wheels turning again. Blood rushing from his face, now white as a ghost, he picked up the plate and went into the kitchen, throwing it in the trash.

  Back in the living room, he looked for something; maybe the movie case. I went to the couch, finding it between the cushions and put it on the coffee table. There is slight lapse in my reality, just enough that he couldn’t see me move the case. Within seconds, it appeared on the coffee table, scaring him so that he jumped back with a shout. I liked that reaction! I started laughing. Walking backward, away from the living room, the disbelief was clear. I’d made my presence known. I didn’t want to scare him; however, I wanted him to tell me more, to give me some closure.

  I opened my purse and reached in for my wallet. That effort of taking the wallet meant for holding cash triggered something in my mind and important memories flooded it, information that would propel me toward closure. I remembered I had six one-hundred dollar bills stashed away in my underwear drawer. It’s my lottery ticket money. I work hard for a paycheck, and playing lotto is one of my few guilty pleasures. Paul hated it. So when I won, I didn’t tell him; I held on to the money.

  Looking through my wallet, I found tickets for the next drawing, and my winning ticket. They were going to Marie. I would visit her after I had my way with Paul. He’d disappeared into the back of the apartment; vapors don’t enter occupied bathrooms or bedrooms, it’s simply not our nature. But everything else is fair game.

  When the bedroom was clear, I got the money out of my drawer, hidden in layers of clothing. Touching my underthings and personal items made me feel a little melancholy, one last time. I’d lived here with Paul for a short period of my life. The only things left of me in the apartment would hopefully be taken care of by Marie so Beth wouldn’t touch any of it. I vacillated between wanting to give the money to my sister and leaving a surprise for Paul, deciding to divide it between the two.

  Back in the kitchen, I took the scissors, formerly used to cut up chicken, to Paul’s share of my money. I cut it into one-inch pieces, making a neat pile on his computer keyboard. It was so satisfying! Just a little remembrance from me to my husband. I couldn’t stick around to watch the discovery because the satisfaction would finalize everything for me. And before that happened, I needed to go to see my sister, Marie.

  The End

  I want to live my life so that my nights are not full of regrets.

  D. H. Lawrence

  Night Encounter

  by

  Suzanne Jenkins

  Copyright © 2017 by

  Suzanne Jenkins. All rights reserved.

  Created in digital format in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in blog posts and articles and in reviews.

  Night Encounter is a complete and total work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Free stories are delivered periodically to subscribers of the author’s newsletter. Go to http://suzannejenkins.com for more information.

  Chapter 1

  Last night, my mother visited me in the garden. At the time, I believed it was my mother. I don’t usually weed in the moonlight, but I wanted mint for my bedtime tea, and didn’t hesitate to go out in the dark to pick it. My place is very secluded, and no one has ever come here uninvited. I’m too far off the road. Fear has never been an issue here.

  The moon was bright when I first ventured out, but there were enough clouds floating around that I thought I might need more light. The flashlight was right where I last left it; on a small metal table by the back door to my cabin. I’d forgotten to change into my garden shoes, but remembered when the cold damp of the tilled earth penetrated the bottoms of my cloth slippers. I shined the light on my feet and thought, darn. Oh well. They were old slippers anyway.

  As I was sweeping the light beam back and forth on the garden path, I saw weeds that had evaded me during the day. I squatted down and started pulling. Long grass went up my nightgown and tickled my thighs. The dirt worked its way under my nails, but I didn’t mind. Soon, there was a respectable pile of weeds for my effort.

  Our growing season is short, but for being late summer, my garden lagged behind that of my neighbor who was down in the valley. His tomato plants were already starting to peter out, and my tomatoes hadn’t turned red yet. The few cherry tomatoes that were ripe I picked and ate as I gardened in the daylight. Now in darkness, I could see the shiny backs of Japanese beetles on the zinnias reflecting off light from my flashlight. I heard locusts and something else buzzing, but couldn’t see the source.

  As I worked, my head was down, hair getting in the way, and I tried not to pull up anything important. Something brushed by my face. I could feel a soft movement of air, a faint flutter of wings. I swung the light around but whatever had touched me was behind my head. I straightened up; it couldn’t have been a bat down that low, or could it have?

  I waved the flashlight around trying to see anything flying, and that’s when I saw her. Rows of sunflowers of varying heights line the west side of my garden. Perched ever so delicately on a dark maroon flower was a large, white butterfly. I’ve seen smaller ones, moths; I believe they are, but never one so large. When I put the light on it, it took off again, coming close to me, swooping around me in the graceful way only a butterfly is able to do. I felt a familiarity from the butterfly, like a tame squirrel, or the same Cardinal visiting the bird feeder during the winter.

  Without thinking, I said out loud, “Mom?” For several seconds, it floated around me, and then, perhaps tired, as my mother was often apt to be, it flew to lavender stalks, and sat upon the tallest. I stared at it, the white wings reflecting the small amount of light cast by the moon. It appeared to be patiently looking back at me. I can’t describe exactly the feeling I had, but there was definitely emotion coming from that butterfly, something akin to recognition.

  Forgetting the mint and my tea, I turned to go back inside, an unnamed anxiety coming over me. But not before seeing that the butterfly flew up into the trees, waiting.

  A cloud drifted in front of what little light the moon gave, and the darkness was suddenly complete and frightening. The trees surrounding my property could be sheltering peeping toms, or worse. Facsimiles of news headlines drifted through my mind; Serial Killer in Remote Woods Leaves Bodie
s Behind, or Single, Middle-aged Woman Found Murdered in Isolated Cabin.

  I pulled my shawl around my body tightly, and walked quickly across the field toward the cabin, my slippers squishing in the wet grass. What bothered me the most was that I’m never afraid. I bought the place to get away from people. This new fear had the added assault that I’d never feel safe if I didn’t at least confront whatever it was scaring me.

  Like most mountain dwellers around here, I have a cell phone that works sporadically, and an air card that is barely functional for my computer. I might use the internet if I need to send something to my agent, or submit a manuscript to my editor. People will call and leave a message if they need to. I open email about once a month, if I’m bored. And forget Facebook or Twitter. My agent is after me to keep my page up to date on Facebook, but I don’t have the time for that. When I refused, she tried to force me to hire an assistant, but I wouldn’t do that, either. Ridding my life of any interaction with people has been therapeutic.

  And now this. Out of nowhere, a feeling of impending disaster, centering on a white butterfly. My mother used to call it apprehension dread.

  I dropped the flashlight on the metal tabletop before I went into the cabin. If I need to rush outdoors at night, it’s helpful having that flashlight there. When I got into the cabin, I didn’t waste any time slamming the door shut and locking it. And when I made those foreign movements with my hands, I frowned and shook my head.

  “There’s nothing out there,” I said out loud, but that wasn’t why I was scared.

  I took one last look out of the front window and could see a spot of white up in the maple tree. I took a step away from the window and quickly closed the curtain.

  My teacup was waiting on the wooden counter in the area I use as a kitchen. The cabin is primitive, but I have running water, and enough electricity to last about eight hours a day if the sun shines. In the winter, I heat with wood, and I have an electric blanket, and a small heater I can use if I am really cold until the power runs out. The cabin has three rooms; a mudroom, a larger space with a sink, refrigerator, and stove in one corner, and the fireplace and living area in the other, and my bedroom and bathroom. Books cover every surface, are piled next to tables and in front of the couch. I’m never bored because there is always something to read.

  In spite of the lonely surroundings, I like having the windows uncovered. But on the night of my garden adventure, after I turned the teakettle on, I walked around the cabin and made sure the window locks were secure and the rest of the curtains were closed. Back in the mudroom, I wedged a kitchen chair under the door handle, and pushed a box of firewood against the chair. I went back into the bedroom to make sure those windows were locked. Feeling ridiculous, it occurred to me that if someone really wanted to get at me, they’d just break a window.

  I put a log into the fireplace. I didn’t need the heat, but I wanted to save the electric just in case, and I liked having the light from the fire. I got my tea ready, and sat in front of the fire with a book, one dim light bulb illuminating the pages. I set my murder mystery aside for another day and picked up a travel story, instead.

  Sometime shortly after midnight, I must have fallen asleep. I got up to use the bathroom and instead of going to bed, decided to stay in my chair for a while longer. At two, I woke up with a start, crying. Once I was sitting up, I looked around and tried to orient myself to the room. It was my living room, in my cabin. There were a few embers in the fireplace, and the room was chilly, but not cold. I pulled my shawl around me and got up to get the teapot. I brought it back to the fireplace and placed it on the metal shelf suspended over the fire for just this purpose. I reached for another log, hoping the embers that remained would be enough to ignite the log, too lazy to get kindling and paper, and start from scratch. I sat back in my chair, waiting. And that’s when I began to think of my mother again.

  Chapter 2

  It angered me that out of nowhere, I might have to deal with issues long buried, hurtful words, regrettable actions I had committed against my mother. When she was alive, I was able to rationalize each cruel thing I had said to her, and relished talking about it, sharing with whoever would listen how I had been wronged by my mother. My sister and brother no longer spoke to me except for necessities, and an aging aunt reminded me that I was the one who started the rift, until I finally broke ties with her, too.

  It was true; I’d orchestrated the division in our family. Now, we were just like every other family who had an estranged sibling. Someone didn’t get everything they wanted from their parent, so wa wa, poor me. I didn’t look at our family’s altercation the same way. Ours was inevitable. It was meaningful. Ancient prose was written about family dynamics like ours.

  But the problem was that none of that worked anymore because my mother was dead. I could no longer fantasize that my sister’s dark blue Toyota would appear, winding down my daunting mile long driveway, and in the passenger seat would sit my tiny, aged mother.

  My mother was the only person who cared about the minutia of my life. The first time an agent query was answered, and later when the agent found my publisher, those first reviews that praised my work, the first royalty checks; although in actuality I didn’t call my mother, if I wanted to, I could have. I imagined the words we would say to each other.

  “Mom! Guess what?”

  And her response; always positive, always encouraging. It wasn’t her treatment of me that I took exception to. It was the way she gave so much of herself to my sister and brother. I hated it. I realize now that it was simply jealousy. I was jealous because my mother spent time with her own children. I was the oldest, I made the choice to move away from her, and when she stayed on to raise the rest of her family, I couldn’t tolerate it.

  The tears worked their way to the surface again. I heard a little rumble in the teapot, and got up to get a teabag and my cup. While she was alive, I would badger her.

  “Why are you giving Faith your car? You should be selling it and banking the money for your estate,” I whined.

  This was over the phone since as an act of defiance; I’d refused to go to see her anymore because it was always me going to see her. It was her turn, but that wouldn’t happen.

  “Janice, I gave the car to Faith because she drives me anywhere I want to go,” she said.

  It makes perfect sense now. My sister lived near my mother; she was the one who sacrificed most of her adult life to see to it that my mother and my brother; let’s not forget my brother, were taken care of.

  John is another story. He started out healthy enough, but by the time he was seventeen, my mother’s life became one of policing his every move because he was hell-bent on killing himself. He was diagnosed with a form of mental illness that some young men get in their late teens. When it appeared, it came on like a monster. My mother found him in the nick of time after overdosing. Another attempt; she walked in just as he was cutting his radial artery.

  Secretly, I hoped he would succeed. I hated that he sucked the life out of my mother, that just when I was starting to experience some recognition in my life, my dialogue with her was tainted by the inevitable conversation about John’s latest aliment, or the newest drug they were trying, or his day care situation. I finally avoided talking to my mother unless I had something really special to tell her.

  Slowly, I was adding to my list of reasons to divorce myself from my family. Number one was that my sister and brother weren’t that interested in my life. They hadn’t acknowledged any of the milestones I had reached, yet I was expected to uh and ah over everything they did. When I graduated from college, John was in the hospital. It seemed like every time I had a birthday, he would act out in some way and grab all of my mother’s attention.

  Faith was getting worse, too. She was taking over my mother’s affairs and I was sure it was benefiting her in some way. When I confronted her about it, she begged me to be in charge of the bill paying and the letter writing, and the other issues that came with
whatever my mother was foisting off on her. But I lived two hundred miles away, and Faith was next door. It didn’t make any sense for me to be involved.

  The coup de grace came about when I was moving to Canada six years ago. I was in the middle of the biggest adventure of my life, and my family didn’t care. I’d bought this cabin on two hundred acres of woods, and was going to live here alone. I was trying to pack up my house, edit my latest book, and drive a thousand miles further west, and they wouldn’t take three hours out of their life to say goodbye.

  My mother chose this hectic time to get cancer. Her lymph nodes were involved which required extensive surgery and chemotherapy. I had a screaming match with my sister, after which I called my mother and said awful things to her. I told her I wouldn’t come to see her during her treatment, that I had no interest in helping her with John. She started crying. I remember now the sound of it coming through the telephone; very soft whimpering, like a wounded animal.

  I don’t remember now for certain, but during this time of heart rendering arguments with my sister, I might have used words like creepy, disgusting, and loser to describe my brother. To my mother, I said she was a horrible parent; that I never felt loved, and that John’s mental problems were the fault of her enabling. The last time we spoke, I hung up the phone on her just so she couldn’t get the last word. Last May, Faith left a message on my phone. It was in the morning on a Tuesday.

  “Janice, give me a call when you can. Mother’s ill and I thought you would want to know. Bye for now.”

  I erased the message, hoping the action would suspend the reality of what I knew was happening; my mother was going to die, and I would feel guilty and responsible about her and John for the rest of my life. I felt powerless to pick up the phone and call Faith for details. My anger was so intense that I found myself believing my mother alone was to blame for her own illness. She didn’t have regular checkups as prescribed, and then failed to get her final round of chemo and radiation, using John’s care as the excuse to neglect her own health.