I'll Be Damned, Book #1 in the Anna Wolfe Series

By Casey Keen

A sister kidnapped.

An impending war between Heaven and Hell looming around the corner.

A Grand Witch who has no idea what she is.

The Prince of Darkness’s obsession in claiming her.

Two sinfully gorgeous men pulling her in two different directions.

As the owner of the coffee shop Deja Brew in Savannah, Georgia, Anna thought her life was ordinary. That is until her sister is kidnapped by a demon, prompting two handsome men to march into her life unexpectedly. Valen, the sinfully gorgeous, overprotective werewolf who is Anna’s sworn guardian and Roman, the most handsome and powerful Warlock in the entire Netherworld.

Suddenly, her world is stripped of everything she knows and replaced with frightening news about who she really is - a powerful Grand Witch. Now, it’s up to her to draw out her dormant magic, rescue her sister and stop an impending heavenly war threatening to eradicate the human race all while staying alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Casey Keen
• Release date: Mar 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9780615791692

Casey Keen

Self-published and determined is how I started my writing career. With an overactive imagination and a healthy passion for anything paranormal, I decided to write about it. Why not? I allowed myself to indulge in the boundless depths of my imagination and my Anna Wolfe Series is just the tip of the supernatural iceberg!Born and raised on the outskirts of Philadelphia, I grew up loving cheesesteaks and soft pretzels! I attended Drexel University where I obtained my Bachelor's Degree in Psychology. I still reside in suburbia, working on the Anna Wolfe Series.

Book preview

I'll Be Damned

Casey Keen

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 by Casey Keen

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, please visit www.caseykeen.com

Printed in the United States of America

Acknowledgements:

To my friends and family

who believed in me:

Thank you!

To my Editor, Teri, at Editing Fairy:

Awesome editing job!

To Jenna DeVries, Graphic Designer:

Thank you for your amazing

talents in helping me create my cover...

Truly genius!

Chapter 1

It happens practically every night. My pleasant dreams take on a life of their own, morphing into terrifying nightmares. They are the tsunamis of the dream ocean, spinning me in their churning tides before thrusting me awake, whereupon I find myself drenched in a pool of sweat, and gasping for air. Abandoning my worry isn’t an option since a demonic element is the driving force behind them. It sounds crazy, but even as a child, a special darkness visited me in my dreams. Is it a warning? Or a threat? Your guess is as good as mine.

They always began the exact same way - I'm being hurled into a pitch-black hole of nothingness. I open my sleepy eyes, allowing them time to adjust. Isolation surrounds me, reminding me how unprepared I am for this place. A dim, orange light cuts through the dark abyss like a blade. I squint, realizing it’s much further than it appears. I attempt to move my feet, but they stubbornly refuse. I try a second time, and manage to overcome the terror that is binding them. One step becomes two and I find myself walking at a cautious pace, listening for the faintest sound. I haven’t the slightest idea where I am, which makes me suspicious of everything. My nose wrinkles as I walk through a large pocket of air that reeks with an overpowering odor of burnt hair. I swing and wave my hands, hoping to break up the stench, but to no avail. What could be the source of such a rank smell? I’m not sure I want to know the answer. I quickly push the thought away. Curiosity can be dangerous when it comes between reality and panic.

I tread delicately, hoping no one hears me. I don’t think I'm alone, and I find some comfort in the darkness. Whatever is with me is out of my sight, and therefore, out of my mind. I never thought I would find a cliché so helpful to me until now. I wrap my thoughts around it, mustering up the courage to carry on. The orange light grows, compelling me to pick up my pace. I glance at my surroundings, unsure of what I might find. The curved, dank walls and concrete blocks beneath my feet are bare, but fortunately, no revolting creatures dangle from the ceiling or slither past my feet, although I am thinking of them! Where the hell am I? Dreams have a funny way of camouflaging life’s problems, but this is ridiculous!

A glint of light from the ashen wall catches my eye. I step closer to it, noticing how the curved cobbles gently mold my feet to their shapes. Small, rectangular stones that suggest their age goes well beyond the medieval era are arrayed in front of me. A dense tackiness catches the small granules of little dust motes that are reflected by the light here. Some kind of liquid begins to seep from one of the cracks in the stones, and I lower my head to inspect it. The crimson liquid slides sluggishly, like a snail, towards the ground. Leaning closer, I realize I’m staring at blood, and I gasp, jumping backwards. My heart thuds loudly in my chest as my adrenaline speeds through my veins like a racecar. My eyes skip around, noticing thousands of little red capillaries materializing all over the wall. An overwhelming paranoia that the tunnel will cave in torments my mind. I turn and dash towards the light, fueled by my distress. My lungs scream for air as I push myself further and faster than ever.

The orange light surrounds a large opening. Skidding to a stop, I barely avoid falling over the ledge at the cave’s entrance. I stare out at a fiery, scarlet landscape that appears infinite, and sends me a menacing warning. I lean forward when a wall of intense heat slugs me in the face, forcing me backwards a few inches. The air is dense, and it’s hard to catch my breath. Sweat beads on my brow, evaporating before I can wipe it away. I scan the ravaged scenery, watching pillars of fire erupt from the ground before disappearing into the onyx sky, rimmed in red. A chain of mountains with jagged cliffs, emerge straight up from the bloodshot dirt. Floating objects I don’t wish to know about, travel in an orbit, weaving in and out through the rough terrain. I’m in a completely different world. My terror lingers, refusing to go away. A raging river of lava slices through the valley, determined to leave its own mark in the middle of this inferno. I stroll down a steep trail that leads directly to the unusual river. I stop long before reaching its banks, and gradually inch my way closer. My eyes drift over to the whirling mass of disturbing beauty. Deep shades of red and orange mesh with each other, creating a horrid kaleidoscope of angry colors. Flashes of distorted images of my family and friends bob in and out of the blazing lava. I watch in horror as the greedy river of fire consumes them without remorse. Despite my attempts to reach in, my hand snaps back after feeling the agonizing heat. I step backwards, staring in numb bewilderment. I know I’m dreaming, but it doesn’t lessen my anxiety. My back slams into something solid and unyielding. Long, crooked fingers wrap around the tops of my tiny shoulders like spiders. Suffering and emptiness engulf me. My heart pounds like a hammer as my limbs melt into rubber. The hands squeeze me hard, sending excruciating pain throughout my entire back. The snapping of my shoulders, cracking like glass, shatters the unbearable stillness. As soon as I open my mouth to scream… Poof! I wake up. No rhyme or reason for it.

***

My name is Anna Wolfe. Growing up, I accepted my uniqueness as an individual early on. My distinctive qualities first emerged around the age of two. It wasn’t anything simple, like wearing Coke-bottle glasses or spending school dances banished in the corner of a room. I was known as the girl who had something abnormal residing inside her… a stranger of sorts. The more I acknowledged its existence, the more different it made me feel. It was a very gratifying feeling, the same as anger or sadness that needs to be expressed when provoked. My invisible traveler usually occupied itself, and remained unnoticed in my life. However, if I came in contact with anyone, they immediately saw my abnormality. How? Well, let’s just say they sensed it like dogs. Dogs often bark at nothing visible to a human, but all the while see or smell something there.

Sometimes, strange things would happen to the people who teased me. And if I concentrated hard enough, I could move objects with my mind. I was convinced I must be developing a mental disorder. After all, hallucinations fall within the top ten bullet points for diagnosing schizophrenia. Friends avoided me, fearing I would freak out or go mental, whatever that meant. Soon, I became the most talked about weirdo in my class. This all came to a head one day, when I shattered the eighth grade English classroom windows. Some of my classmates were ruthlessly teasing me with their onslaught of punishing names. That was the day I crossed the invisible line between weirdo and real-life, freaky witch. I don’t know which was worse, being ostracized as a nerd, or having people justifiably scared of me as a supernatural. Growing up is one of the hardest things for anyone to do in life; but mine seemed even harder.

***

Fast forward sixteen years. It's the end of May in Savannah, Georgia and I’m with my family, waiting to be seated for dinner at The Olde Pink House. Although I love this restaurant, I’m not looking forward to the next few torturous hours. I sigh, hoping the conversations won’t be overly boring or crass. I attempt to squeeze my thoughts into an optimistic frame of mind, but lately, it’s been awfully difficult. They’re only visiting, Anna, I remind myself. I should be thankful that our dinners are far from customary, considering how little I see my family. I moved to Savannah five years ago and fell in love with two things: a man and this bewitching city. The man didn’t work out; and abandoning the city that built itself a home in my heart wasn’t an option.

The skinny hostess, wearing a form-fitted, eggplant-colored dress, saunters over, motioning for us to follow her with a backward wave. Her burgundy hair really pops out against the purple dress clinging to her body like static electricity. She escorts us into a spacious room, with a fireplace bigger than the room’s doorway. The walls are a deep navy, reminiscent of the colonial era. Swirling with bold lines, the decorative crown molding embellishes the otherwise drab porcelain white ceiling. The hostess stops in front of a long table, elegantly draped in white and gold linens, which imbue it with a slight air of pretentiousness. With a smooth sweep of her arm, she gestures for us to sit. She hasn’t uttered one word, which I find odd. Normally, any hostess with the mostest would brown-nose the patrons. Apparently, she doesn’t care about winning the Employee of the Month’s parking spot. She glares at me as if she hears what I am thinking. We lock eyes, and just as she quickly, she turns away, noticeably distressed. I shrug, well accustomed to her reaction as well as that of most strangers.

We find our seats, and conversation immediately animates the table. Cara, my younger sister, manages to steamroll all topics until only her wedding is being discussed. She’s getting married in a few months, so the repetitive preparation plans that ensue are hell. Her fiancé, Mike, just sits and smiles, totally unaware of the demanding woman he’s about to pledge his life too. She’s hell-bent on having the wedding at Forsyth Park, with the reception in the very place we’re sitting now. That’s if they don’t call off their wedding for the third time. I steal a glimpse of everyone at the table, observing somber expressions. No one looks interested and who can blame them? Janie, my older sister, rolls her eyes when she hears Cara mention the song she wants playing when she walks down the aisle. Cara continues to spew her recurring wedding details, attempting to hide them in different strings of sentences. Her wordplay is tiresome and elementary. I elbow Janie, and reveal my disinterest with a smirk. She tilts her head, trying to hide a playful grin. Cara hates it when anyone ignores her while she’s speaking.

Janie, seriously? Cara growls, glaring at her. You can’t listen to me for one minute?

Janie wipes the grin from her face. Cara I’m listening. Let’s see… you were just telling us your ‘aisle’ song, Janie responds, placing air quotes around the word aisle. I believe it’s ‘Christmas Cannon,’ right?

Cara stares at her indignantly and Janie smiles in response. Don’t worry. You only told us a dozen times. I think we got it, she finishes with a snicker.

The whole table erupts into giggles, excluding Cara. After spearing Janie with another sideways glance, she continues her wedding monologue, sending me into a blank trance. Time must’ve snuck by quickly because now we’re between the appetizers and entrees. A pile of empty wine bottles assembled in the middle of the table becomes an appropriate centerpiece. Three more bottles magically appear, and soon Cara's wedding plans are lost to everyone's intoxicated chatter on unrelated topics. It’s always a challenge to listen and try to follow my family's conversations when alcohol is the ringleader. Janie looks bored to death with Cara’s rant about designer clothing; while Jack and the boys discuss do-it-yourself Home Depot projects. I cringe. I hate hardware stores and their lack of décor. Their unwelcoming colors and dingy floors remind me of a gynecologist office – boring, but necessary. There are too many options for one thing, like screws for example. Finding the perfect screw is impossible. There are infinite shapes and sizes, and all overflowing their containers. To make matters worse, they're all different: shiny, dull, long, short, smooth or rough. Couldn't I have one without the other? A woman's mission to the hardware store can get rather personal! I laugh inwardly at the thought of finding the perfect screw.

Cara's irritating voice clashes in my head. Forsyth Park is the ideal backdrop with its spectacular fountain. As you know, the reception will be here, she says pointing to the table excitedly. Then she looks directly at me. You know, Anna, it really is a shame you didn’t get married, she smirks as she bats her wicked eyelashes.

Anger rises in me. No worries, Cara, I’m sure you’ll do me a solid and get divorced within a year, I retort coldly.

Now, now, children, my mother interjects nicely. She hates it when we go at each other.

Rolling my eyes, I turn my attention elsewhere. Cara brings out my inner child. Janie changes the subject just to avoid the awkward silence that now threatens to overtake the table. My cheeks are flushed, but I can’t tell if it’s from the wine or Cara’s infuriating comment. I stare out the window, swallowing long, deep breaths to calm down. She’s more than aware that less than six months ago, I was planning my own wedding. I found a special someone too, the one Hallmark cards are written about. Stephen was the center of my world. His parents own the BB&T bank in Savannah and he happened to be my loan officer. He helped me get a business loan for my coffeehouse, Déjà Brew. I chose a charming location across from Madison Square, directly off Bull Street. The converted, ancient Victorian home proudly boasts its past with decorative taupe shingles, circular, off-centered windows, and an elaborate wraparound terrace that invites passersby with a Southern welcome. It’s not particularly sleek, but it carries itself with enduring grace and poise.

I sigh inwardly. Stephen was supposed to be on a business trip the day I visited the bank. I never knew fate had such an elaborate sense of humor. Shortly thereafter, Stephen became a daily visitor, ordering his vanilla latte with no whip. After a year, we were engaged and began making plans for the future. Looking back, I think I must’ve imagined the we part. Before I knew it, Stephen traded me in for a newer and sleeker model - his young secretary, whose waist was only as big as her IQ. After his rejection, I spiraled into a hole of self-doubt. I tortured myself with horrible questions for weeks, never liking or accepting the answers. What does she have that I don’t? A six-year age gap and bigger boobs. Why do I feel like this was my fault? Because I wasn't home enough. Am I not pretty enough? That’s questionable. Did I eat too many Kit Kats? Yes. Beauty lies in a person’s history, not in their vanity, but it was easy for me to feel insecure after his affair. The only consolation was that his newer model had more mileage, if you know what I mean. Her name is Lola, which even sounds effortless and easy.

Anna, are you thinking about Stephen? Cara asks huffily, slamming my self-pity like a bowling ball.

Of course I was, seeing how she had the nerve to bring him up. I decide, however, that it’s better to lie than admit she struck a chord. I swallow hard. No, I'm tired. I was up late last night, trying to make some headway on the new marketing campaign, along with the preparations for your wedding, I reply indifferently. Only the beginning of my sentence is true.

Okay, that’s good, because we don’t want you to sulk over him now, do we? she asks in a patronizing tone.

Obviously it’s a rhetorical question. I sink further into my chair like a reprimanded toddler. Cara thinks I’m trying to steal her spotlight, as apparently, I’ve been doing for months now. I sigh, thoroughly frustrated with the way she thinks and acts. If I have one pet peeve, it's selfish people. I've met plenty of folks in my life who believe they can say and act however they choose. Consequences are irrelevant and hurt feelings are just a bore. People like that, Cara included, always end up alone. I'm pretty sure I’ll be alone too, but at least, my reason is by default. I never found love's good side, and now, at the age of twenty-nine, I’m convinced it doesn't have one.

Janie leans over, resting her head on my shoulder. She can be such a bitch sometimes, can't she? she whispers, not expecting an answer. The shared amusement in our eyes says enough.

She’s exhausting. I can't wait until this show is over. Janie nods in agreement. I know I’m more vulnerable than usual, so every jab at my confidence is a knockout. I hate it when I can’t shield myself from her words and my own self-deprecating thoughts. No one understands my grief. Okay, grief is a bit dramatic. The worst part of the healing process is it’s lengthy. Or maybe it’s that fixing the pain has to be a solo job.

So, Anna, what's going on in your job that makes you so busy you can’t return my calls? Cara asks, batting her eyelashes passive-aggressively again.

How can someone look so innocent while spitting venom? Since you’re so interested, I’m working on a marketing campaign geared towards the older generation here in Savannah, I answer assertively. It's somewhat true, but my job is suffering. I’m a hard worker, but lately, it’s been the complete opposite. There’s a mountain of material that I can’t seem to find the motivation to climb. I feel restless, misplaced and frightened without any explanation.

Anna, you don’t seem very enthusiastic about my wedding, Cara states, deaf to every word I just said. She tilts her head like a confused puppy, but an evil one.

The table hushes as all eyes land on me. I hate silence during difficult moments. I try to say something heartfelt, but I tend to choke on lies. The muscles throughout my body contract and the echo of my pounding heart throbs in my ears. Well, I reply, clearing my throat, I am happy for you. I smile as genuinely as my simmering anger allows. My response is automated and fake, but Cara doesn’t want the truth. She prefers pretty, little lies wrapped up in pretty, little bows.

I wish you would be majorly excited for me. I'm getting married... me! she says, placing her palms on her chest dramatically. Your younger sister is getting married!

I grunt silently. Those three words hit me like a baseball bat. Younger sister married. I don’t need the reminder. I’m happy, Cara. It just seems so sudden and everything is moving so fast, I finish. My muscles are still contracting, making me flinch. I inhale deeply, trying to ease the persistent discomfort.

Anna, it’s going to be amazing. After all, we’re getting married in the city you love. All of this will be part of my special day, Cara says, extending her arms outward.

She reminds me of the Red Queen from Alice in Wonderland, pompously offering the rights to her kingdom, but only if Alice bows down and worships her. Sometimes, I think she's only getting married in Savannah to piss me off. I quickly stand, grasping my clutch before rushing to the bathroom without a word. I fly through the door, stopping in front of the sink. Clasping its white porcelain sides, I lean over it like I had one too many. I dip my head down to lessen the pain. This cramping has been happening for a while now, but getting much worse over the past few months. I focus on my breathing, and wish the pain away. It turns into a dull throb before dissipating. I reach for the faucet, turning the brushed nickel knob once. Cold water flows freely over my wrist. Gently, I pat my cheeks, trying to dissolve the splotchy redness on them. I raise my head and stare at my reflection with a scowl. My straight, black hair picked up a thick wave; and my usually vivid green eyes are muted and outlined with puffiness above my too slender nose. I inspect my full lips. They’re dotted with white specks that stick up like jagged glass begging for a swipe of Chap Stick. I grasp my hair and twirl it into a tight bun, securing it with the handy hair-tie I always carry around my wrist. After patting beneath my eyes with my fingers, I generously swipe Chap Stick on my lips. A few minutes later, I start to recognize myself, and exit the bathroom, so relieved the cramping is finally gone.

I walk back to the table in a daze, avoiding the hostess area. I’m not in the mood for a stare down. I reach the table, hoping no one noticed my absence. I slide in my chair amongst the oblivious people, and feel Janie’s hand on my knee as she gently squeezes it. I nod my head, letting her know I’m okay without looking at her. I rearrange my napkin and take a stab at unraveling my mind. Catching the tail end of Cara's conversation, I notice she's still discussing Savannah like she lives here. She barely knows this city, let alone had any interest in it when she visited me all of two times. She still bends and twists the truth to fit her own interpretation. She wasn’t this bad as a child; it became something she grew into. Even her physical characteristics mimic a woman who gets what she wants. Her pin-straight blond hair is effortlessly coiffed, not like she just rolled out of bed. She looks perfect and her pale blue eyes accentuate her petite features. She has an athletic build without having to earn it, yet constantly complains about being fat. Woe is me, according to Cara.

Cara, your mother and I have an idea. Why don’t you stay here in Savannah for a long vacation? Maybe a week before or after your wedding? What do you think? Jack suggests.

"Perfect idea! A whole week in celebration of my, I mean, our wedding," Cara gasps, as she grabs Mike's arm, trying to hide her Freudian slip.

I’ll look into homes for you two, Jack answers, winking at her.

I throw Janie a sarcastic expression, which Jack intercepts with a frown. He adores Cara and she knows it. He gives her whatever she wants. A knot forms in my stomach, as I think how long a week can seem with someone you can’t stand. Cara staying in Savannah for more than a few days is too much for me to bear. My mind races with images of the tyrannical wedding procedures I’ll have to endure and the time I must sacrifice. It doesn’t take long for my heart to sink, considering it was already half submerged for some time now. Janie and I roll our eyes in unison. We’ve never been close to Cara. Maybe it was Cara’s superficial views on world issues; or the way she views life as her own personal shopping mall. Either way, her manner of living never coincided with ours.

Janie and I were always the rational, study-work types, who believed achievement is the greatest reward in life, not a new designer bag. Throughout college, Janie and I were busy finding ways to continuously prolong our academics, while planning our futures and relishing the thought of being career-driven women. Cara on the other hand, was filling her future with men and money. She met Mike by sheer luck three years after she graduated from NYU, at a Starbucks off Madison Avenue. She bumped into him while exiting the store, and spilled her skinny caramel latte all over the front of his Fendi leather jacket. As soon as she found out he worked on Wall Street, she was determined to marry him. Mike’s a decent man, who prefers to listen rather than speak, which any woman can appreciate. Sometimes, I feel bad because he never knew what hit him.

I cut off my inner tangent. Your work will let you off that long? I reply, sounding like an overprotective mother afraid of letting her daughter enter the world. The difference being, I’m praying the world will swallow her.

Anna, stop overanalyzing my life. If I need another vacation, I’ll take it without pay. We aren’t struggling for money, she snaps with a snide grin. I don’t need to work if I don’t want to.

Must be nice, I answer, annoyed.

Okay, girls, Jack says, trying his best to maintain the peace.

Cara doesn't blink and jumps right into discussing her job at Coach, which she refers to as a career. She only took the job to obtain the twenty percent discounts on their handbags. I lean back in my chair, feeling aggravated, fidgeting with the champagne-colored dinner napkin while wishing I could disappear. Our entrees finally arrive and discussions continue to flow. I’m grateful to enjoy a more normal topic like sports and careers. I’ve always wanted to make a dent in the world, and my ambition never ceases. In second grade, I had a collection of gold stars next to my name for completed homework and classroom tasks. I was ridiculed for my achievement, which I expected. The bullying I got just for being me is what really hurt. I was different and everyone knew it. Gosh, I hated my grade school years. They called me horseface. What a name. I used to come home in tears after the daily ridicule they’d unleash on me. Every day, I had to be on the defense, constantly concealing my wounds. It quickly turned into a full-time job. As the years passed, I realized the kind of attention I received could ruin my own integrity if left untreated, so I toughened up. Something inside me stirred one day, as if finally awoken. That was when the objects began moving inexplicably, and the classroom windows shattered. I shake my head, recalling them, but wanting to forget the memories that hurt too much.

Janie pinches my arm to get my attention. Ouch! What’s that for? I cry, rubbing the sore pinched area.

Anna, can I stay with you until the wedding? she asks in a murmur.

I shoot her a quizzical look. Janie, you don’t have to, I'm fine.

I want to, she answers, slowly elevating her voice. We don’t get to spend any time together, with you living down here and all. Nick will drop me off at your place after dinner. His flight’s tomorrow, so it works out perfectly, she finishes, flicking her wrist like it isn’t a big deal. I know she’s lying whenever she dismisses me so easily. It’s her way of saying shut up.

Mom and I would feel a lot better, Jack intrudes, looking my direction, if there was someone keeping you company, he finishes with a nervous laugh.

I understand their concern, but I’m twenty-nine years old and I do know how to dress myself and tell the difference between my left and my right, and have for some time now.

Oh, Jack, you always make sure everyone is taken care of, my mother chimes in.

I sigh inwardly, not understanding what the big deal is. Jack and my mother live on Hilton Head Island, which is only a thirty-minute drive; so if I were in dire need of sugar or company, I could always jump in my car. They moved there after falling in love with the island, which isn’t a surprise; it has that effect on lots of people. They left the hustle and bustle of New York City behind for a restful lifestyle. They bought a charming home right on Forest Beach, along with the two lots of contiguous land. Coligny Circle and The Salty Dog are simply a bike ride away. Life is good for them.

Well, I guess I'd better be going. I have a load of work to catch up on and not enough time to get it done, I announce. I stand up, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles out of my dress. Here, I reach in my clutch and pull out three twenties.

Don't even think about it, Jack insists. You know better. Dinner is on us, he says pointing to my mother and him.

Thanks, Jack, I respond, bending down and planting a kiss on his cheek.

Anna? You know you can call me if you need to talk, right? Cara reminds me. We’re heading back to New York tomorrow, but I’ll be in touch three weeks before the wedding!

Okay, I respond reluctantly. Accepting Cara's help is like borrowing money from a banker… you end up owing more than you can afford. I called her once at three in the morning after leaving a bar, desperately in need of a ride. She told me to call a cab and hung up on me. I still don’t remember how I managed to get home that night. After a few quick embraces, I exit the front doors and nearly sprint to my car. I hurdle in the driver's seat and flip on the ignition, listening to my engine purr. I stomp on the gas pedal, speeding off like a bat out of hell. I grab the knob on the radio, twisting it until my concerns are carried away to the tune of People Are Strange by The Doors. What a coincidence, I chuckle, rolling my window down. The night's muggy air pours in, blanketing the seats in a familiar clamminess, and reminding me why I love the South. On nights like these, I wish I could keep driving until I’m in an unknown town with new faces.

I turn left, focusing on the dimly lit backroad ahead of me. There are barely any street lights, but thankfully, the moon illuminates my path with its bright glow. My house is in Springfield, forty minutes from downtown Savannah. I don't like the idea of living so far from the city, but when I stumbled across my house, the commuter time seemed a small sacrifice in comparison. Something about it felt like me, that I was home. It was built as an old sawmill from the nineteenth century and used to mill lumber. In 1910, it was renovated into a Folk Victorian after the industry died down. Needless to say, I have a lot of land with very few neighbors - privacy at its finest! I pass the road leading to the town of Rincon, knowing my turn isn't far off. A phantom throb passes through my muscles like an aftermath. What are these spasms? My sporadic muscle cramping isn’t normal. I wish I could share it with Janie, but the last thing I want to do is worry her. Lately, I feel detached from everything. I mull it around in my head, trying to decide whom I should see first - a shrink or a family doctor. Either way, I know something isn’t right.

A few turns later, I’m pulling into my driveway. I still feel exhausted from the anxiety that Cara stirred up. Gosh, what is it with her? She’s so different from Janie and me. I drag myself out of my car, leisurely walking to the porch. I can't wait to leave these annoying worries at the door. I reach the front porch steps, when a loud rustling from the trees makes me stop and freeze with terror. Normally, I would chalk it up to a squirrel, but the crackling of the leaves tells me it’s a lot bigger. Sweat beads line my forehead and a lump of fear lodges in my throat. Every muscle in my body tightens, almost doubling me over. I wait in silence as the minutes tick by without a sound. We're in a standoff, each waiting for the other to make a move. I peek at the trees behind me where the noise originated, finding nothing. No red eyes or white mask; it’s just my paranoia getting the best of me. I tell myself it’s an animal, but I can’t ignore the feeling of dread that churns my stomach, heavy as a brick.

Cautiously climbing the porch steps, with my senses on high alert, I emerge at the top and take a quick inventory. The two moss green Adirondack chairs sit idly next to the porch swing, suspended from the ceiling. It gently sways in the light breeze, gliding next to the flower pots. Looking over my shoulder, I walk to my door, and unlock it, but