The Gentle Man

By Michelle Montague Mogil

Ana Trent is having a change of life -- and it ain’t menopause. Just when she had resigned herself to a life of drudgery and angst in her downhill years, Ana is accosted by a mysterious man running for his life. Naturally, she tries to help. Naturally, things don’t go well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle Montague Mogil
• Release date: May 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301964505

Michelle Montague Mogil

Michelle was born in Buffalo Children's Hospital in Buffalo, NY, on March 1, 1960, thus depriving her mother of a surf'n'turf dinner. She has spent the last 50+ years trying to make it up to her.Michelle has worked in various jobs over the years including hay baler, cow milker, cleaning woman for the rich lady down the road, waitress, darkroom technician, gas station attendant, horse exerciser, dog sitter, cat feeder, egg picker, and, yes, systems analyst and bartender.She is owned by two cats, one greyhound, and ten chickens.But she is also blessed with three daughters, three grandsons, and a very tolerant husband.

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The Gentle Man

by Michelle Montague Mogil

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Michelle Montague Mogil

Michelle can be found muttering about things here:

A Place for My Mind

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is mostly a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the products of the author's fevered imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 1

My name is Anastasia Trent and I am suflet nocturn now. Go ahead and Google that; I’ll wait… Yeah. Romanian for night soul. Becoming that turned out to be just one in a lifetime of foolish decisions on my part. Four scant weeks ago, I was given the choice between an extraordinary existence and a life of mediocrity. I chose the extraordinary, as many would, I’m sure. As a consequence, I am now attempting to justify that decision, explaining to myself and to a number of other people, how I managed to get where I am now.

It must have truly begun as I stared down the length of the empty, dusty barroom on a dead Monday night at the Central Exchange, a local restaurant and pub where I tend bar part time. I laughingly call bartending my stress-relief job: psychological medicine for the unrelenting pressure from my day job. Anyway, the kitchen had closed, the place was cleared out—there are no serious drinkers to speak of anymore—and I had plenty of time to contemplate my bleak future. Resentful thoughts churned in my brain while I mentally kicked myself for turning down a day job offer in Syracuse, an hour’s commute away. I wondered if I had made the right decision. I second guess myself on the average of once an hour—I may have been legally blind at the time without my Coke-bottle-bottom glasses, but my hindsight has always been impeccable.

Midnight rolled around. I shook off my thoughts and shuffled about turning out lights to discourage last-minute patrons while I got down to my closing duties: put the stools up on the bar and tables, close out the register, sweep away evidence of the night’s debauchery, and, lastly, haul the bucket of food scraps to the compost bins and a bag of trash to the overflowing dumpster at the far end of the parking lot, where maggots and raccoons could have their way. Still deep in my sulk, I trudged across the gravel parking lot and dumped the stuff, stopping then to put a match to a cigarette.

Mistress, please let me in, came a voice out of the dark, frighteningly close to my left ear.

JEEzuz! I squeaked. I jumped back, then spun around, and the lit cigarette dropped from my lips down the front of my blouse. I hopped madly in circles, cursing a blue streak, and frantically shaking the smoldering butt out of my shirt while a fleeting shadow slipped around behind me. I couldn’t see who owned that shadow.

Then, in my other ear—more urgent, and a lot more hissy, "Let me in. Please. Now."

I whirled the other way, feeling clumsy and stupid. "Where? Let you in where?" Peering myopically into the dimly lit lot, I tried to fix on the source of the voice. The shadow flitted to my left and quivered next to the body of my black pick-up truck. Silence.

Okay, I’ll admit to having a shift-drink—a pint-glass of some rum concoction I splashed together while I moped over my career. Alright, earlier I’d slugged a shot of Jim Beam with the cook who was having a Really Bad Night. I’ll even cop to that shot of Jameson bought for me still earlier by this lonely old regular who harbors the fantasy that I will someday leave Ethan, my husband of nearly thirty years, and run off with him. But, dammit, I was not drunk. Not even slightly buzzed. Still, there came that damned voice again.

Please, Mistress, the please was drawn out into several syllables. "You must let me in. Quickly. I beg of you."

A heavy accent. Russian? Czech? It was one of those Eastern European countries where they chew their consonants, I figured. While I puzzled over the voice and tried to figure out what the hell was coming off, the shadow resolved itself into a man, staring fixedly at me from behind a veil of tangled hair. I blinked in surprise at the sudden strong impulse to brush that tangled hair from his pale forehead. Remember what I told you about hindsight?

There I was, on this memorable June night, a fifty-two year-old woman with a husband, a family, and a decent job—with benefits. For more than twenty years I made my living as a computer systems analyst at world-renown Cornell University in the tiny upstate city of Ithaca, New York. I was, at this late stage of life, days away from lay-off status, and I was feeling desperate. Jobs in the IT field were scarce and getting scarcer. I had a huge disadvantage—a woman in my fifties, I couldn’t write code with anything resembling competence. I’ll tell you, I would rather have been thinking about my retirement years than beginning the long, arduous process of finding another full-time job. But, without a doubt, Ethan and I could not make our mortgage payments solely on the income from my part-time bartending job and his sporadic real estate sales commissions. It was, as it always was between Ethan and me, incumbent on me to find another full-time, salaried position—with benefits.

Ethan and I were having occasional arguments about selling the house. How occasionally? Almost every month—when the mortgage payment fell due and the checking account fell short. We both knew that our house would be a hard sell. Our original home had the audacity to go up in flames one bitter cold April morning—April Fools’ Day, as a matter of fact—and the shoddily built hunk of junk that replaced it wouldn’t fetch nearly what we were fleeced for in the rebuild. A couple of crooks who called themselves contractors had seen an opportunity to make a quick buck. They’d convinced us they would build our dream house with no hassle and within budget. Three-quarters of the way through the project, we saw clearly that they could no more build a house than I could swoop through the woods under a full moon. Later, as shingles and siding soared off the house during wind storms, we faced the reality that we had spent every last nickel and dime we had plus plenty of nickels and dimes borrowed from friends and family, trying to get restitution for this travesty. No go. I had stood helplessly by, watching my life spiral downwards like shit down a toilet, and those were the thoughts that were bringing me down on this night.

I shook my head as I realized this shadowy guy and I had been standing there, wordlessly staring at each other for some time. He finally nodded toward the two hundred-year-old sway-backed brick building that houses the Central Exchange and whispered with firm insistence, "Please, Mistress. I beg of you." I sighed. Oh, what the hell. I really didn’t give a crap if this guy mugged me and burned the bar to the ground. What difference did it make?

Okay, I said, for no sane reason on this Earth. Fine! If it means that much to you, come in for chrissake. It never occurred to me to protest that the pub was closed and I wanted to go home. That’s where it all began, and the entire thing should have been way more than second guessed.

I turned and walked briskly back to the pub and up the stairs to the door, not daring to look over my shoulder and wondering if I’d finally gone round the bend. Pushing through the entrance, I let the screen door bang shut behind me and couldn’t bring myself to see if the phantom of the parking lot followed.

The Central Exchange had always had a reputation for harboring ghosts. I’ve never given much credence to such nonsense. I’ve never seen, felt, heard, or otherwise experienced paranormal activity, and I am alone in the place many nights from about ten until midnight. If any ghost was going to manifest itself, in whatever fashion, wouldn’t that be the time to do it? As I stood there shaking like Jell-O, every hair on my body standing at attention, my scrambled brain worked on a logical explanation for this strange guy, but couldn’t really come up with one. I had the presence of mind to lock the door a few moments later, for what it was worth.

Bless you. The whispered words issued from the dark corner at the other end of the pub.

What? I peered down the length of the room, my heart pounding, stomach jumping, and wished I hadn’t turned off the lights. Shadows shifted and ran across the walls when cars passed on the highway outside. The neat row of barstools, their legs upturned in surrender atop the long wooden bar, lent a sinister air to the place. The five booths along the wall held more darkness, and I fancied ominous threats under the squat benches. I strained my tired and blurry eyes, trying to locate the source of that seductively quiet voice. And finally, suspicion set in. Creeping stealthily across the floor, I glared into mottled darkness while covertly reaching under the bar for the Louisville Slugger stashed there for just such an occasion.

Matt? JR? I said, now hoping this was just another stupid prank the kitchen crew had set up. If this is your idea of a joke, it’s not fucking funny! I quietly slid the bat out and took one more step forward. I saw him. Hunkered down on the floor, next to the last booth, he looked like a lump of shadow. Trembling, coiled like a rattlesnake, but oddly frightened with one hand raised in supplication, the other clutching knees to chest. He looked scared, but I was the one facing the rattlesnake. Danger vibrated from him, charging the air around us.

"Who are you?" I began, but an uproar swung me around toward the door where a small mob of angry faces peered in, the accompanying fists beating against the door. My brain yelled, get your damned phone and dial 911. My body shrieked, collapse on the floor and pee yourself. For a change, my brain won: I dropped the bat, heard the wooden clatter as it hit the floor, and fumbled my cell phone out of my pocket. After several shaky stabs at the keypad, I punched those life-saving three digits. In a second, another voice, the voice of salvation, reached out to me.

Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?

Yes, panic coursed through my veins, but as people will in emergencies, I ran down my possible responses. There’s a hoard of angry villagers at my door or Help, I’m being attacked by a crazed mob bent on death and destruction or even The zombie apocalypse has begun!

When the dispatcher repeated herself, I settled on a breathless, but sane, I’m trying to close the pub here at Central Exchange and there are a bunch of unruly people outside. I think I need help convincing them to move on.

I had long suspected that the sheriff liked to prowl the area looking for unsteady drivers, because it couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds before the cruiser glided into the lot—no lights, no siren. What, he figured he’d sneak up on a mob?

Wait, mob? What mob? As the sheriff came up the steps to the door, I saw that the faces and fists had vanished. It was just the sheriff out there now, bending to peer in the window and looking put out. I crossed the room to unlock the door, knowing I wouldn’t come out looking great in this scenario.

You know it’s unlawful to falsely report a crime, right?

Officer, I’m sorry. I swear to God. There were like ten, twenty people beating on that door two seconds ago. I stared over his shoulder into the empty parking lot. It was just that—empty.

Eyes narrowed, the lawman leaned slightly forward and sniffed. Mm-hmm. You your own best customer or what?

I had one drink! One! I covered my eyes with a shaking hand. Look, I said I’m sorry. They took off, maybe, when they saw me dial my phone.

Heavy annoyed silence while the sheriff’s eyes scanned the room.

Awright. I’ll take a look around the lot. He clumped out the door, stomped down the stairs, folded himself back into his cruiser, and pulled out of the parking lot with not even a cursory glance around. And that was that. My tax dollars at work.

Great, so I’m drunk, a loony, or both, I muttered, then realized I hadn’t even mentioned the quivering shadow last seen cowering near the furthest booth.

Hey, Pal? I peered into the back of the room and detected no sign of my shadowy stalker. Where the hell did he...

I thank you most sincerely, Mistress, spoken softly into my left ear, so close that his breath stirred my hair. I leaped back.

Gahh! The phone went flying and my heel connected with that damned baseball bat. I flailed, desperately trying to avoid the inevitable, but, instead of making tailbone-cracking contact with the hardwood floor, I felt a strong grip on my arms. He set me upright and I stared into the blackest eyes I’d ever seen.

My vision had adjusted finally to what dim light filtered in from the streetlights outside and I could just make out this stranger’s features. His pale, deeply lined face was framed by dark tangled hair that hung to slender, almost skinny, shoulders. He wore very faded jeans, and a scuffed tan jacket over a dark-colored flannel shirt. He stood barely an inch taller than me, and probably weighed less. Physically unassuming, yes, but, when his gaze caught mine, I felt my free will scuttle away to some safe corner in my mind. Warning bells sounded in the recesses of my conscience.

Unperturbed by my uneasiness, he swept the room with those mesmerizing eyes. This is your establishment?

Uh, no. No, I don’t own it. I’m one of the bartenders.

He looked puzzled at that. But, how? He shook his head slightly, and then said Well, never mind. Suffice it I am safe. And for that, I am in debt to you.

Ah, yeah. I eased my arms from his grip. What the hell was that all about? Who were those people?

Those people, they wish me dead—once and for all.

This sort of thing happens every day, doesn’t it? And isn’t dead usually once and for all? I smirked at his impossibly pale face floating before me in the gloom. Okay. Funny joke. Who put you up to this?

Joke? No, Mistress. He paced to each window in turn, pulling aside the curtains to stare into the night. It is most definitely no joke. He turned his eyes on me now, and I felt like he could see my brain. How would you think this running for my life is a joke?

Ha! I guffawed. "My life is kind of a running joke. Silence. Okay, not funny. Hey, look. It’s getting late, so let’s be all done here, right?"

No response. He stared at me, and the silence grew hotly uncomfortable. What was it about those damned black eyes? An eerie, syrupy feeling came stealing into my mind, tugging gently as if I simply had to do, well, to do I had no idea what.

Finally, I said, Ya know, dude. Whatever your deal is, I’m not in the mood for drama. I need to go home, soon. And you need to leave so I can go home, got it?

Yes, I wish to leave. He broke his intense gaze to pace the room again. But they are there, watching, waiting. They will surely succeed this time.

Oh, fer fuuuu— I spluttered before spewing out a diatribe that would have made Archie Bunker shut up and take notice. I’m about fed up here. I’ve had a night full of discontented people leaning on my bar, whining about their sad and lonely lives. Before that, a day full of clueless users whining about technology that stopped working after they managed to break it. At my age, I should be dialing it back a bit, right? Taking things a little easy? But, no, I work my ass off just to stay even. Look at this! I’m getting grey hairs, even! I clutched my thick auburn hair, laced with a few silvery threads.

My nocturnal visitor, unimpressed, continued to prowl the perimeter. I drew myself up to my full five-feet, five-inches and fixed my blue-eyed version of a steely glare at his back. You know what? I finished more quietly, feeling done and defeated. I’m really tired, and I just want to go home. Take yourself and your weird little feud somewhere else. Leave. Now, you pathetic sack of humanity.

He strode back to me and pinned me to the edge of the bar, his hands gripping my arms like steel bands. "Humanity—an admirable quality, yes? Do you possess it?"

Not at the moment, no! I spat, twisting futilely in his grip. Ow! Get your hands off me!

The angry lines of his face melted to deep regret. He rubbed my arms gently and dropping his hands, moved his glare to the floor. Deep sigh. Ah, well. I have presumed upon you far too much. His slender frame sagged. As it happens, I, also, am tired and too weak to run. Truly, I have nowhere to go. So, just like that, he went from dangerous scary crazy guy to pitiful helpless crazy guy.

Aw, shit. Ok, listen. I really can’t let you stay here. I’m sorry, My voice trailed off and his black, black eyes stole into my brain again. I felt that syrupy tug for the second time, a disconcerting shift inside my skull that made me disoriented and dizzy.

Think on it, Mistress he said softly, gentle hands stroked down my arms again and his pallid face filled my entire field of vision. Surely, you know a way. You do. You will help me, of course.

My lips went heavy, as if stung with Novocain, and those traitorous lips began to move of their own accord. I whispered haltingly, Um…I have a spare room at home. What the fuck is wrong with me? You are…welcome to use it. Hello? Am I nuts? I blinked. The room oozed back into focus. What did I just say?

Why that manipulative little…

He smiled, his lips parting with agonizing slowness, offering tantalizing glimpses of his white teeth glittering in the darkness while his haunting eyes echoed that eerie gleam. Mistress, he whispered into my soul, you are most kind. I accept your generous offer.

Chapter 2

A half-hour later—pub closed up, mysterious stranger hustled into my truck—we made it home without further incident, and I was second-guessing again. Hind sight? My life isn’t complicated enough. I had to add to it, right?

Walking up the path to the house wasn’t easy in spite of the full moon. Both cats slithered out of the darkness to twine themselves around my legs and then offer my house guest the same courtesy. He leaned down, picked up Otis, and held the black feline to his chest. Otis curled up and purred loudly.

Well. You’ve got a way with cats, I see. He doesn’t like to cuddle.

The stranger smiled at me and buried his nose in Otis’s fur, then set him down. Cats, he said softly, are most honest creatures. They brook no dissembling. If they will find you worthy, then you are worthy.

Oh—kay, I turned and continued up the path, stepping carefully around Milo, the orange cat, who was doing his best to trip me up. I unlocked the door and opened it, fiddling with keys and purse, gesturing my guest to enter. He didn’t move and I looked up, puzzled, as he stood still at the threshold. Well? I said, and held the door a little wider nodding toward the inside.

You must invite me in, he whispered, toeing the door jam.

I drew a breath, really regretting my impulsive generosity. "Okay, wacko. Please, won’t you come in?" He flashed me an embarrassed smile and sidled inside to the foyer.

We were immediately set upon by my neurotic greyhound, Quincy. I tried to shush the foolish dog as he danced around us, whining and waggling himself practically inside out. I was amused; when any stranger enters the house, Quincy barks and growls threateningly, then sulks off to his crate, having said his piece. He especially didn’t like strange men but here he was, bouncing up and down, doing his best to lick this particularly strange man’s nose, and whining like he had found his long-lost best friend.

This is? The man looked at me inquiringly.

Quincy. Vicious watchdog.

He is wonderful. The visitor squatted on his heels and gazed eye-to-eye with the animal. To my astonishment, Quincy slathered the fellow’s face with his tongue. Rather than cringe and move away, the stranger enjoyed Quincy’s ministrations for a moment, and then rose. If you allow it, a dog will give you love no matter the nature of your own beast, he said, with a sad look and a final pat on Quincy’s quivering head.

Well, anyway. Up here. I started up the staircase to the second-floor bedrooms, but he shot out a hand and grabbed my arm. Again? Damn it! Enough! I turned, jerking my arm away.

Look, I growled. I’m going out of my way to help here, when every instinct tells me not to. Stop clutching at me. It’s starting to piss me off!

He raised the offending hand in a gesture of contrition. I am sorry to have caused you distress, Mistress. However, it would be more comfortable for me to have accommodations of a less—lofty nature.

"And that’s another thing! What’s with this mistress crap? I’m not your mistress."

Then, how will I call you?

You can call me Anastasia, Annie. That’s my name.

Anastasia, he rolled it around his tongue like someone would a fine wine.

I grimaced, anticipating the usual reaction to my archaic name. It’s kinda awkward, I know. My mother’s folks were Russian.

"It is a beautiful name. I shall remember, Mistr—Anastasia. Never this Annie. He shook his head and smiled. Let us go below?"

Below? You mean the cellar?

This home has one, yes?

Well, yeah, but, I squinted at him. It’s kinda gloomy down there. There’re no windows or doors except for this one, I gestured at the cellar entrance in front of us. The only way in or out is right here, thanks to the idiots who built this place.

It seems perfect. He brushed past me to lay a hand on the handle and looked at me, expectantly.

Um. ‘Kay. I squinted at him. Are you allergic to light or something?

Allergic? To light?

Yeah, sunlight. What are you, a vampire or something? Because, that would be just about perfect.

He stared blankly at me, and then understanding dawned on his face. Ah! Yes! Yes, I am that! He laughed, opened the door, and said, Let us go below.

What else could I do? I followed.

At the foot of the stairs, with the lights full on, I could finally see him clearly. His face, indeed incredibly pale, was well-lined and framed by rich, chocolate-brown curly hair that brushed his slight shoulders. His head was slightly higher than level with mine, and I figured he must weigh less. He looked so very breakable. It was not easy to determine the color of his eyes. Very thin, light irises rimmed pupils that were almost completely dilated, and the whites looked painfully blood-shot, irritated. He had on well-worn blue jeans, badly stained sneakers, a plaid flannel shirt, and what I decided was a fairly expensive, but fairly old Carhartt jacket—one of the originals, I thought.

The guy looked to be forty-some years old, but the incredibly tired, care-worn sag of his face was good evidence he had spent those forty-some years on hard work and hard living. Fantastic, I’ve brought an aging, high-on-something hippy into our house. Again. Ethan will be thrilled with me. Again.

In the far corner of the cellar, there was a dusty twin-sized mattress, left over from our squatting days when the house was under construction. I found some old sheets and a sleeping bag stuffed into a box in the same corner.

I’m afraid I don’t have extra pillows, I said, looking around at the scattered boxes of junk.

None needed, Mistr—Anastasia. I am most content.

Yeah, okay—great. Finished with catering to