Hidden in a Small Town: A Suspense

By Stacy M Wray

She’s being attacked, losing her footing as she falls to the dusty ground littered with pine needles. Scurrying like a crab, she attempts to stand and then... nothing.

A cold sweat trickles down Slater Montgomery’s spine as he struggles to control his breathing. It’s been years since he’s felt them – years since he’s seen them. The visions which nearly destroyed his childhood. Back then, ignorance and getting high were his allies, providing a false sense of security. Now? He can’t get her out of his head. The girl with the wild curls and fear-riddled eyes – the girl of his dreams.

Except, Slater knows this is no dream. It’s too real, too raw. The details, her emotion... before he can convince himself not to, Slater finds himself packing a bag and leaving his picturesque Wyoming home in search of the woman haunting his every waking moment. He just needs to see her once, just to be certain she’s safe. Just to be sure he’s not losing his mind.

What Slater imagined to be impossible – actually finding the mysterious woman – proves to be just the beginning. As secrets are exposed, Slater finds himself trapped in a web darker than he ever could have imagined. One which he’s not quite sure either of them will survive.

It started as a vision. A dream-like scene flashing through his mind. The ending?

A nightmare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stacy M Wray
• Release date: Jun 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463144817

Stacy M Wray

Stacy M Wray loves writing and reading anything romance - Judy Blume being one of the first authors she read in middle school. After all, a world without love, heartache and angst would prove a boring place to live.Lover of gray and white cats, craver of all things sweet, enthusiast of hiking and camping, wife of an extremely supportive husband, and mom to two amusing adult children, she realizes life is pretty damn good.She also appreciates that it's never too late to try something new. Never.Join me on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorstacymwrayWebsite: www.stacymwray.comFollow me on Twitter: www.twitter.com/stacymwray

Book preview

PART ONE

SLATER

chapter one

Okay, who can tell me the cause of the Civil War?

Blank faces stare at me. I’ve yet to figure out a way to keep my students’ attention during this last period of the day. Either it’s the subject – History – or the time slot. Most likely, both. Half have checked out by now, impatiently waiting for the hammering bell before they sprint out the door, dissolving into the homeward-bound chaos.

Layla, planted in the back row, twirls a strand of her long, wavy hair around her index finger as she stares at the mountain peak out of the hazy window, unashamedly daydreaming. Nathan, who thinks I’m blind, secretly texts on his phone, which is partially hidden by a notebook stuffed with empty snack wrappers. And Dillon and Lexi carry on a low-pitched conversation in the corner, oblivious to my annoyed glances. I’m about to call them out on their disruptive behavior when my mind suddenly fills with blinding images and intense flashes, causing me to nearly double over in shock.

A petite woman flits across my vision. Her long, black, curly hair hangs in her face, concealing her identity. It seems as though she’s being attacked, losing her footing as she falls to the dusty ground littered with pine needles. A sheen of sweat gleams on her troubled forehead. Strands of red beads fall to the ground from her dirt-stained shirt, the busted thread unable to hold them in place. Scurrying like a crab, she attempts to stand and…nothing.

I steady myself, my fingers gripping the desk’s edge for support. Sweat dampens my hairline and the back of my neck, causing me to push my rolled-up shirt sleeves further past my elbows. Again, without warning, my hands grip my forehead as another flash appears– a dimly lit building behind the same woman. Neon bursts of colors blur in a backdrop of black. Closing my eyes, I can hardly believe this is happening. I thought I was free. It’s been almost thirteen years since my last vision. I thought it was the last.

Mr. Montgomery? You alright?

I brace myself for another vision, but it doesn’t come. Only the concerned murmurs of my students have me focusing on the present. Opening my eyes, the room swims as I fight nausea that accompanies the visions – a combination I’m vaguely familiar with. At least I have the presence of mind to lower myself into my desk chair before my shaky knees give out, unable to hold my weight. My once-aloof students appear concerned now, their curious faces staring at me as I concentrate on bringing my vision back into focus.

Get it together, Slater.

Swiping the back of my hand across my dampened forehead, I manage a tight smile. Um, sorry about that. Lunch must not have agreed with me. Collectively, the class appears to relax as I stand to test the strength of my legs. When I don’t crash back into my seat, I’m relieved.

It’s over.

But for how long?

Now…about the Civil War. I clear my throat to release the shakiness from my voice. Who can tell me what was at the root of it? Finally, a couple of hands lift, and I realize I have everyone’s full attention.

I’ll take it for now, no matter what the reason.

In another fifteen minutes, the final bell resounds, followed by the thumps of textbooks slamming shut. I feel the relief as much as my students. They file out the door in noisy chatter as I gather a stack of quizzes which need graded. Usually, such a task signifies extra work in my free time. However, I won’t mind the preoccupation.

I head out of the building using the side entrance which leads to the parking lot for the teaching staff. Radiant sunshine blasts my eyes as I push the double doors open, practically blinding me. It’s May in Wyoming, and today boasts a perfect seventy-two degrees. Already, I know I’ll be enjoying my dinner on my deck, along with a few cold beers – or maybe something stronger after what I experienced earlier.

Why on earth would I have a vision like that now?

I’m in no mood for company or chitchat when I notice Karla Wright, a fellow teacher, hanging around my car. My eyes sweep the length of her body, not surprised she caught my attention in the first place. Legs that go on forever. Curves accentuated in all the right places. Saying she’s attractive is a vast understatement. Unfortunately, her good looks couldn’t make up for the lack of connection – nothing’s there. And a conversationalist she is not. It was like extracting classified information from the CIA, only worse.

For this reason alone, dating a colleague is a bad idea.

And cue the awkward moment.

Hey, Slater. How’d your eighth-graders treat you today?

Pasting on a forced smile, I tell her, Same as usual. They don’t give a shit.

Her unnatural laugh punches the air. My lame-ass answer never fails to amuse her every time she asks that same question. I rub the back of my neck, wishing for a quick getaway. I want to be nice, really I do. I’ve never understood how some can’t grasp the meaning of an indisputable brush-off. My earlier vision threw me for a loop, though. Right now, the only image I welcome is that of a long, open road. Not an inept, annoying woman.

There’s a long silence when I say, I’ve got to run. See you tomorrow, Karla. I pretend not to notice the disappointment clouding her face when I slide behind the wheel. After starting my truck, I toss her a little wave as I pull out of the narrow parking space.

Thankfully, summer break is only a few weeks away. I figure the months away from each other will allow her to move on to some other guy, hopefully, one who isn’t an ass like me.

I convince myself she merely caught me at a wrong time.

I slip my sunglasses on to shield the late afternoon sun as I attempt to clear my head. On a typical day, I would notice the golden, open fields flanking either side of me; a shrub land mosaic of spattering sagebrush and rock formations. They have always fascinated me with their mighty shapes and mysterious presence. But right now, my hands tightly grip the steering wheel as I drive in a daze, terrified the winding road ahead might morph into that of a woman who seems to be begging for her life.

A shiver blankets me even though the heat of the sun pounds on my skin through the windows.

What the hell was that? I haven’t had a vision since I was sixteen. I prayed that was the end of them. And it was until today. Shaking my head, I can hardly believe my rotten luck. Why now?

Forever keeping my visions to myself, I could never fathom what was going on inside my mind. I didn’t believe in seeing into the future or psychics – anything connected to it. I don’t even know if what I see is the future or not. It could be something happening in the moment or from the past. It may not also be real. I have no way of knowing. I never told my parents, unwilling to be labeled a freak. Not that they would have– they’ve always been supportive. Still, I buried it, praying that my unique gift would disappear and never return.

But now it has returned, wreaking havoc on me. Maybe it was a fluke, a one-time thing. They mustn’t happen when I’m teaching. The kids will talk, and soon my superiors will ask questions.

No, this is part of me that must remain hidden.

chapter two

A few days later, I’m helping my friend, Erik, lay some new boards across his weather-beaten deck. We’ve been at it for a few hours, and now we’re reclining in the refreshing shade of a whitebark pine, munching on some peanuts and half-guzzling our beers.

So, Melissa told me you and Karla have been gone out. That true?

My head whips in his direction. What the hell? The devilish smirk on his face tells me he knows he’s hit a nerve – a pastime high on his list of fun. You’re a dick; you know that?

He chuckles and shrugs. I’m just asking.

We went out a couple of times. End of story. Why? What’s she saying?

Who? Melissa? Or Karla?

I toss back the rest of my beer in a couple of gulps, flinging the amber bottle in the soft grass below my chair. Erik and Melissa have been together for about a year, and she loves to gossip. Don’t get me wrong – she’s a great girl. Just has a passion for the gab.

Either.

A gust of wind blows, feeling like heaven against my sweat-soaked shirt. Erik tosses me another beer, seeming bored with the topic already. Man, I’m just bustin’ your balls. But Karla’s the clingy type. Might want to steer clear.

I shake my head, regretting the fact I thought she might be fun. Believe me; I’m steering clear as tactfully as I can.

After another hour, we decide to call it a day, knowing we’ll be back at it tomorrow.

The sun dips in the west, casting a warm, golden glow over the low rolling hills and rugged ravines as I drive the familiar road to my cabin. It’s so incredibly peaceful out here. Cows lazily graze at the bottom of the bluffs which form the basis of this vast, beautiful state. At any given time, antelope can also be seen feasting on the dry grasses scattered throughout the prairie. Man, the scenery never gets old; it’s the kind of thing unlucky people only get to read –

A flash of white light blinds me as I slam on my brakes, veering my truck to the side of the road. The curly-haired girl appears in my mind – the same scene as yesterday – only, this time I see her face. Her mocha fear-filled eyes widen as she shakes her head, her lips moving, but I don’t hear her.

It’s as if I’m watching a silent movie in my mind. Sweat prickles my skin as I clutch my head in my hands. Everything fades to dark.

Lifting my head, I blink hard. These images scare the shit out of me. Who is this girl? What is going on? Why am I seeing her?

Leaning my head against the headrest, I close my eyes, testing to see if any more visions sear into my brain. Nothing, only darkness. I’m surrounded by silence, aside from the idling of my truck and a distant rumble of rolling thunder.

Fearful of sliding the gear shift back into drive, I sit a bit longer. I’m freaked out by the fact there’s a girl out there somewhere in trouble, or was. I don’t know. Am I supposed to do something? How? What? I have no idea who she is or where she lives.

I bang my palms against the steering wheel in frustration. Jesus! Why can’t I be normal?

When no more flashes invade my vision, and I think it’s safe to finish the journey home, I apply pressure to the gas pedal. I find myself driving under the speed limit the rest of the way home.

Once there, I grab some leftover pizza from the fridge and a bottle of whiskey with the seal still intact. Without even bothering with a glass, I twist the lid open and drink straight from the bottle, all decorum left on the side of the road along with my sanity.

Two weeks. I need two weeks to get through the end of the school year. Then I’ll be able to deal with this.

Carrying my picnic for one outside to my deck, I plop the pizza box on the cedar-slatted table but keep the whiskey in my hand – I need it more than the food. Dropping into an Adirondack chair, I take a few more pulls of the golden-hued spirit. The rich, woody notes blend seamlessly with the nutty, citrusy layers.

I had my first vision when I was eleven years old. It was more dream-like than the ones I’ve had recently. In fact, I thought I had been dreaming. But when I heard my dad pull his Trailblazer into the driveway, and the slam of the car door, I knew I wasn’t in a state of REM.

I saw a young boy with short, dark hair and mud caked on his cheeks and stains on his shirt. I remember a few days after the visions occurred, I noticed a poster hanging from a utility pole – a missing sign and photo of a young kid. I walked by that picture every damn day and studied it to the point where I could tell you the position of every freckle on that kid’s face. But I could never be sure it was him. To this day, I still don’t know. But he had the same fearful eyes as the mystery girl from earlier, and it causes my chest to tighten. Are they trying to tell me something? Back then, I was just a kid. But now I’m thirty, capable of action. But what?

All I have are unanswered questions in my head. The conversation I have with myself feels like a broken record, and I want it to stop. So, I take a few more swigs of my dinner, taking note how my limbs relax into the wooden slats of my chair, and how my head is fuzzy and weighted.

Just the state I’m going for.

Now, when I close my eyes, I picture the frightened girl. It’s not a flash or a vision – no neon lights, no fearful eyes. Just her face. Her high cheekbones. Long, dark eyelashes. Plump, rose lips. That wild hair. I imagine a settled expression – one of peace. Amongst all of the commotion happening in the images from earlier, it wasn’t lost on me how exquisite she was. Even in her fear.

Ignoring the pizza I carried out, I bring the bottle to my lips again, tilting my head back. Even though the air has cooled considerably, my skin is ablaze with heat. Eventually, the burn of the alcohol dulls more with each swallow, ultimately numbing everything. Even my mind.

It doesn’t take long before I disappear.

I don’t remember getting myself to bed, but that’s where I find myself the next morning – haphazardly laying on top of the rumpled sheets, still fully clothed. My pounding head maintains a heartbeat all its own, throbbing to the rhythm of the one inside my chest. My parched mouth mimics the texture of tissue paper, screaming for hydration. Why in God’s name do I do this to myself? The morning after is always the same. You’d think I’d learn.

The hypnotizing drum of raindrops on my metal roof signals I won’t be helping Erik finish his deck today. Realizing this is a blessing, I cautiously roll myself over until I’m staring at my ceiling. My eyes focus on the built-up dust accumulated around the blades of the industrial-looking fan directly above me. The short gray piles of lint serve as a reminder of yet another one of my shortcomings.

I half-wish the blades were spinning – I could use a little air.

When my stomach feels settled enough, I carefully move to a sitting position. I notice a slight churning, but it’s not terrible – pretty sure everything is staying put. Pushing to my feet, I shuffle to the kitchen, knowing there’s a bottle of Gatorade at the back of my fridge for occasions such as this. After all, this isn’t my first rodeo.

After grabbing the much-needed electrolytes, I stare out of the glass door that leads to my deck. The pizza box from last night is saturated with water, causing the cardboard fibers to pull apart. I visualize the soggy crust inside and shake my head. Not a great visual with the status of my churning stomach at the moment. I turn and face the distant mountains instead, the queasiness settling.

I take a few more cautious sips of the citrus drink as I remember why I reached for the whiskey in the first place – the beautiful girl with the wild hair and haunting eyes. I almost find myself wishing for another flash now, wanting to make sense of it all. I know for a fact I’ve never seen her before – I’d remember those eyes. A foul, sour taste coats my tongue. Must be a result of my whiskey indulgence. But if I’m honest, it’s the fear I witnessed in her eyes. My helplessness weighs on me. What am I supposed to do with this information?

Taking a seat on my worn leather couch, I hold the remote in my hand even though I have no intention of turning on the television. Swiping my thumb back and forth across the oval rubber buttons, I attempt to picture the girl, hoping for another clue. For some reason, I don’t find it as freaky today.

But no matter how long I sit here, the only flashes I notice are the white streaks in the inky, stormy sky, indicating a day filled with gloom.

Now that I want another vision, it’s not in the cards. Funny how life always seems to flip me the finger.

chapter three

Perusing the grocery aisle, I’m astounded by how many kinds of cereals have erupted over the years. From little honey bees and leprechauns to prominent, red ‘K’s and cartoon captains. I quickly scan the colorful cardboard boxes, explicitly searching for Sonny the Cuckoo Bird, spotting it somewhere in the middle. I toss it in my cart and head for the checkout.

Maneuvering my cart around a woman who relentlessly scours every item in the center-aisle sale bin, a blinding image impales my sight. The sudden flash causes me to ram my cart into an endcap display of Hershey bars, marshmallows, and graham crackers, toppling a few bags of the white, puffy treats on the linoleum floor. This time, I half-welcome the intrusion.

The wild-haired girl stands behind a smooth, mahogany bar top, her lips tipped in a quirky smile as she pops the cap off of a beer bottle. The powder blue tank she’s wearing advertises a bar called The Tin Can in bold, black letters across her chest. Containers of every kind of alcohol provide a backdrop, and I realize that must be where she works.

My heart races as my eyes remain shut but since I’ve been waiting for this, it’s the only reaction I have today. No more sweating or chills. No more upset stomach. No more dread. Instead, I wait for more cryptic clues, hungry for information.

I’m clearly disappointed when the flash fades, and I’m only graced with the fake fluorescent lighting of the store when I raise my eyelids.

My hands sweep through my hair in frustration as I lean over with my forearms resting across the bar of my cart. Is she okay, now? Was that from before or after the scene on the ground? I have no way of knowing.

My eyes fixate on the s’more display, now cockeyed. I bend over to gather the bags of marshmallows before someone runs over them with their cart. Placing them back into their designated slot, I push my cartload to the checkout.

Pulling my truck out of the parking lot, I’m in a strange trance. I continually focus on the beauty behind the bar as I drive the familiar road home. Her eyes are hypnotizing, yet, I sense they hold secrets. Secrets I couldn’t unravel, not knowing a thing about this stranger. Conflicted now, I don’t know what to think. I’m relieved she’s okay.

At least, I hope she is.

After putting my groceries away, mowing the lawn, and doing a load of laundry, I finally sit on my deck to watch the sun slip below the mountain peaks, leaving nothing but a trail of wispy orange-pink fluff floating along the horizon. Propping my feet on the railing, my mind drifts back to the girl.

Who am I kidding? She’s been at the forefront of my mind for days now.

*     *     *

Only three days of school remain. Three days to decide what to do.

Yes, I’ve Googled The Tin Can. Yes, I’ve considered taking a road trip. Why? Because that woman has gotten under my skin, burrowed in like some parasite. If I’m honest, I’ve become obsessed. I need a glimpse of her to make sure she’s okay. There must be a reason for these flashes. Ignoring them doesn’t feel right. Hell, I can’t ignore them – they’ve become a natural part of my thought process.

I hate having this on my conscience, feeling responsible for some stranger in another state. And every time I tell myself there’s nothing I can do, I can’t forget the way those unforgettable eyes stare back at me in my visions. They grip me, even in the form of a floating mental image, and I’m unable to forget them as I go through the motions of a day.

Must be a gift, I hear as I glance to my left. Having no idea someone sat beside me, I fidget in my chair, attempting to bring myself into the here and now.

Hey, Tom. I didn’t hear you sit. Tom’s the seventh-grade history teacher, as well as the girls’ soccer coach. Having been here longer than me, he was one of the first teachers to take me under his wing when I first arrived at this school. We formed a fast friendship due to our mutual love of history and our poorly represented gender of teachers at this school.

A quizzical expression passes across his face. As I said – must be a gift. One you’ve hopefully mastered in the classroom. He smirks before taking a bite of his store-bought sub sandwich. I know there’s no way in hell he put that thing together – it’s too organized, for lack of a better word.

I smile. Guess we’re all ready for a break – teachers included. If it weren’t for the summer breaks, I’m not sure I’d return.

That’s not true – I love being a teacher, and we both know it. Nothing is more rewarding than weeding out the few who need me. Most of these kids coast through school effortlessly. I can tell the ones who have a good support system at home. However, there are others who appear lost, and I’m not talking academically. I’ve always believed that middle school was a crucial age where acceptance amongst your peers trumps good grades. It’s become a passion of mine – to spot those kids. Pay particular attention to make sure they don’t fall through the cracks of non-acceptance, hanging in an unsavory clique. I’ve seen it happen again and again.

Grinning, he shoves his sandwich in his mouth, knowing I’m full of shit.

So, big plans this summer? You going to build that grill island you’ve been yacking about?

Without any preconceived thought, the words gush from my mouth. I’m thinking about taking a little road trip, seeing where I end up.

With a lift of his brows, he considers my plan. By yourself?

Why not? I think it would be a great wind-down. Am I trying to convince him