Survival: You Can't Outrun a Nightmare

By Eve Morton

After surviving a school shooting, Mona Ouellet moves from Montreal to Peterborough, switches her PhD discipline from English Literature to Psychology, and tries to move on with her life. Unfortunately, her nightmares follow her--and so do a host of "bad men" who seem to appear around every corner to make her life difficult. Her only escape is to fall into her research completely, where she soon becomes obsessed with retelling true crime case studies and enamoured by a waitress at a local diner.

Kerri Reznik is a waitress by day and horror writer by night, where she turns elements of her two-month long captivity in the wilderness with her survivalist father into stories to scare others. Though over a decade has passed, Kerri is still haunted by her brother Lee's absence in her life and her inability to reconcile with it. She seeks camaraderie with Absalom Lincoln, a detective on Peterborough police's force, where the two bond over mysteries, both true and imagined.

As Kerri and Mona's connection becomes stronger, their past traumas begin to intertwine and both of their worst nightmares begin to evolve and intensify. Each character must struggle to negotiate how to live in a world where survival is never guaranteed, and even when it is possible, there is always a cost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sapphire Books Publishing
• Release date: Feb 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781952270192

Book preview

Kitty Genovese was all Mona saw. As soon as Kitty’s dark eyes emerged from the distance and became a fully formed, haunting stare, Mona knew she was dreaming again. Her body went rigid in anticipation of the tableau of pain she was well familiar with:

Kitty Genovese would walk down a New York City street to her apartment building in Kew Gardens. Winston Moseley would approach from around the corner and yell. He would produce a knife. Stab Kitty. Leave Kitty. Then come back again and finish stabbing her inside the stairwell of her apartment building. While Kitty screamed, thirty-seven people in the surrounding apartment buildings would do nothing.

At twenty-eight, Kitty would die.

In her death, Kitty Genovese became an icon, a quick cultural shorthand for modern apathy and the danger of the city. And for Mona Ouellet, Kitty’s image was so commonplace she’d become a latent dream symbol to decode.

Sometimes, the variables in her nightmares changed. The streets of New York were replaced with Montreal. The Kew Gardens apartment building would become a basement rented room. Moseley would become Gabriel Côte, a white kid from Mona’s second-year Renaissance poetry class (ENGL 245, she would still remember), and not a black man with a criminal record.

Kitty Genovese, though, would always be the same. She would always be there.

Tonight, the knife that Moseley used was replaced with a .44 magnum. It was the only kind of gun that Mona knew, and it grew three sizes in her mind. Kitty spotted Moseley and ran down the street and around the corner. The sun that had once been high in the sky now set with unnatural speed, making the dream landscape pitch black. Mona wanted to wake up, already knowing the ending, but she was frozen. Her body was stiff. She could not breathe.

A shot fired.

A woman screamed.

No one did anything.

Blood mixed with the blackened sky, a bruise on the landscape and behind Mona’s eyelids. When she thought it was over, another shot rang out.

Mona awoke in her apartment in Peterborough, Ontario. Her desk light was still on across from her single bed. She blinked once to adjust to the brightness, so she could survey her apartment. The closet was still open. The bathroom at the end of the hall was visible; it seemed untouched. When she rose from her bed to check the bolts on the front door, they were still fastened.

Nothing was amiss, nothing askew. She placed a hand over her chest and breathed heavily as she slumped against a wall.

Another shot rang out.

Mona ran to the window, careful not to become too visible behind glass. Light cascaded in the sky. Another gunshot in her mind became a firework in real life. Reds and blues exploded across from her apartment, over residential streets towards the Otonabee River.

Of course.

She checked her phone and saw it was Victoria Day. The long weekend in May had completely slipped her mind. She’d gone to her office on campus early on Thursday, exhausted from not sleeping the night before. She’d napped periodically, between trips to the grocery store and the library, and prepared the last few paragraphs of her final comprehensive exam. The weekend had been a blur of Dewey decimal numbers and ramen noodles, then potential brainstorming for the dissertation proposal that would follow. The holidays in Ontario were still new, her mind still perpetually fixated in Quebec, though she’d been here for nearly two years. Time had already slipped to Sunday night before Mona had even noticed.

She watched a few more fireworks burst over the city. Her hands shook. There was no way she could go back to sleep after being jolted awake like this. Each blink brought back the nightmare in full colour, still fresh like a scent in her nostrils. The scream from Kitty at the end always felt like it was her voice, but her chest was so compressed that there was no way she could yell, let alone breathe, during the nightmare. She ran her hands through her hair to steady herself. She counted from one to thirty-seven, in an attempt to reach one hundred, before more pops and bangs disrupted her.

Fuck it.

Mona disconnected her laptop from her desk and placed it inside her shoulder bag with the charging cord. She grabbed her notebook and a few of the selected titles on Stanley Milgram and Solomon Asch before getting dressed in the same clothing she’d worn the last three days. If she couldn’t work at her apartment, there was always the library on campus, where not even the threat of a holiday would interrupt the grad students in their study carrels.

As she rode the elevator down, she splayed her keys in her hands as if they were brass knuckles. It was only nine at night, but it felt so much later through her disrupted sleep. Before she stepped outside the elevator, she checked around each corner. She did the same as she exited the apartment building. As she walked to the bus stop, she suppressed each time she wanted to jump from a firework. They were starting to become background noise—like car engines, the hum of a washing machine—when someone shouted at her from a passing car.

Nice legs, sweetheart!

The rest of the voice and its slurs were blurred away by speed. Mona clenched her jaw. Her face flushed with heat. She’d jumped at his words, though they should not have been a surprise. Her mother’s lecturing tone always emerged, like another hidden relic underneath her skin, when men catcalled her. You are pretty, Mona. You must get used to this. She thought she had gotten used to it, but it took moving to Ontario to realize she’d only built walls around comprehension. She hated the bus stop near her apartment building because it was close to a bar; she would have merely skipped this street in the past. Now she had to walk by it with a stone face and keys between her fingers. She checked the time and decided to risk walking another two blocks to the earlier bus stop by a community centre. She nearly missed it when the bus arrived, but she ran to catch it.

The bus driver was a woman, blonde and smiling. Mona flashed her student card and finally felt the tension ease away. She took a seat close to the back of the bus.

And like always, she reviewed her dream again.

She tried to focus on Kitty Genovese’s story, not on her own. Through her three-day research fest, Mona had been surprised to learn that Kitty was a lesbian. She had always thought Kitty was murdered by an ex-boyfriend, a spurned lover, someone who had been tangled with her in some way. That had been the version of the story Mona’s mother had told her—yet another reason to understand that she was pretty and had to be kinder to strangers who envied it. When Mona had attended university, a professor brought up Kitty in the Intro to Psych class, but he focused on those witnesses who may or may not have done something or nothing and the legacy they wrought. When Mona took criminology the next year, that professor focused on Moseley, who hadn’t been a lover but a criminal who had already committed another murder before Kitty but was never prosecuted for it. It was only now, decades after the crime, that the other details—such as Kitty’s roommate, her sudden break from her first marriage, and the gay bar where she worked—made her life stand out as a lesbian. Maybe Moseley had seen Kitty coming out of a gay bar and followed her because of it. Maybe this was a hate crime.

There were so many distinct ideas about Kitty Genovese and what had happened that night. None of them would ever come close to the truth—but that was why Mona was so attached to her. Maybe by examining the life and death of Kitty Genovese, Mona could stop the nightmares and get a PhD at the same time.

Maybe it would also stop her from focusing on Gabriel.

Mona was about to Google Kitty’s girlfriend’s name on her phone when the bus took a sudden turn. Mona had grown so used to the express student schedule, it had become like a lullaby to lure her into research mode. Instead of driving up towards the western part of campus where the river and Bata library converged, the bus bypassed the exit entirely and drove down the road closer to the environmental studies area, close to a wooded ravine.

Where are we going? Mona stood on shaky legs and wandered up towards the driver. The scenery passed as fast as her elevating heart rate.

Detour stop. We can’t go to the library.

Because of the holiday?

Construction around. All summer. Just started. The woman examined Mona in her mirror. But the library is open. You can walk from our last stop.

Mona mumbled a thank-you before she headed back to her seat. The idea of walking by herself across campus at night filled her with dread. But for research, for a chance to pass away the time until it was dawn and easier to sleep in her apartment, she was sure she’d try it. She always had her keys, and if need be, pepper spray at the bottom of her bag. Her mother may have taught her to accept being pretty and to blink back the affronts of the world, but she didn’t have to be stupid or naïve. Her father had taught her that.

The last stop of the new bus detour was past the forested area bordering the campus, closer to a residential area. A strip of bungalow houses sat next to a strip mall so common in Peterborough, containing a cluster of cheque-cashing places, a pawn shop, a run-down convenience store, and a diner. The sign for Mel’s Place was fluorescent green. It seemed from another time period, like Mona had walked too far away and accidentally lost herself in time and place. When the bus stopped, a surge of people got off and trudged toward the campus.

Mona found herself heading to the diner.

A bell rang when she stepped inside. A woman at a cashier station with curly, dark red hair smiled brightly. She gestured to a bank of booths to the left or a series of small round tables closer to the counter.

Take what you like. I’ll be right with you.

Mona headed to the booth. The smell of hash browns and eggs became overwhelming; she realized she’d slept through dinner and hadn’t eaten much for lunch. The menus were vinyl and easy to read. There wasn’t too much choice beyond the standard diner fare, but everything there seemed utterly wonderful.

How you doin’? the woman asked. Her accent seemed forced, as if she was trying to sound more like a country homebody than she really was. Her sharp nose and flat cheekbones gave her an aged quality, but Mona was sure she was younger than she was. She was also so much smaller than she had once seemed behind the cash register. Mona was barely over five feet four inches, making this woman barely five feet and less than a hundred pounds.

I’m good, thanks. Mona ordered eggs and a cup of endless coffee that she could already smell. The woman smiled again and left her in her booth.

As Mona’s computer booted up, she surveyed the area and all the easy exits. A man in the back with a bandanna over his forehead seemed to be the short order cook, while only a handful of other employees were around. The woman who had taken her order dealt with all the tables present, most of which were men in plaid shirts and weather-worn faces. Farmers or construction workers or truck drivers. It was a dive diner, a place that Mona would typically avoid because of the clientele. There was a sense of safety and tranquility here, though Mona was hard pressed to say how or why it seemed that way against her better instincts. At the counter close to the coffee machine, a black man and a white woman with blond hair in a ponytail had holsters on their waists and badges right next to it.

Then Mona understood. She’d seen enough police and plainclothes detectives to recognize them, even if this was a completely different province.

She sank into the booth, feeling better about her choice to study here. If the cops came here for their midnight snacks, then at least robbers, drug addicts, and stalkers stayed away.

That was the hope.

By the time her computer booted up, she was drinking her second cup of coffee. Whenever Mona worked on a longer project—like her first dissertation or her comp exam questions—she reverted to her old-school ways of tackling a project. She became the eager know-it-all in sixth grade and sprawled out with her research on the floor, tackling every last interesting piece of data with Post-it notes and flags. She used spiral notebooks and wrote everything by hand. Her computer only made an appearance in these kinds of sessions for email, the occasional e-book, and quick fact-checking online. Even when she was at McGill University and studying in the English Department, she’d always defaulted to writing all her essays out by hand before typing a single word. Sometimes in both languages, too, as if in the process of translation she could hone facts that much more. It was this habit of dual writing—or writing by hand at all—that was why it was taking her forever to finish her degree. Well, that and the rather large topic shift from English to psychology.

She sighed, feeling only a small pang of nostalgia for her old discipline. English was history. Psychology was the future, and it was one that was filled with fewer ambiguities. There were clear answers and results here. Hypotheses and conclusions rather than thesis statements and speculation. In many ways, English lit and psychology were the same—both dealt with how stories were told and to whom—but one dealt with real people and real events. Which also meant that its perfection into a dissertation had very real consequences.

Mona pulled up a photo of Kitty Genovese on her laptop. It wasn’t the famous photo that had been reprinted in dozens of magazines afterward—the one with a closeup of her face with her half-open-mouthed gaze. That had been her mugshot, when she was arrested for a small gambling infraction. Mona didn’t want to remember her through the lens of crime. Instead, she’d found one of the few colour photos of Kitty there were. She wore a green dress and stood outside next to a backyard fence. The image was haunting, too, but for different reasons. Mona recognized the excitement in Kitty’s expression, the formal wear for an event that was supposed to represent a rite of passage, yet Mona also saw the distant dread before Kitty’s eyes. Mona gazed at the image for another moment before diving into her work.

Here you are, hon, the woman said. She glanced at all the books spread out in the booth with a casual smile. Where shall I put these in all this?

Oh. Sorry. Mona pushed two books to the edge of the booth that was vacant, freeing up space beside her elbow for the eggs. The woman placed them as Mona’s stomach rumbled.

Is that your mom? The woman gestured to the photo of Kitty.

Oh. Oh, no. Not even close. Mona was about to laugh heartily at the thought when she re-examined Kitty’s features. Kitty was Jewish and Italian, while Mona was from two Irish Catholic parents who were Francophone to the core—but there were overlaps in their looks. Kitty’s dark hair mirrored Mona’s, though Mona’s hair was well past her shoulders and as straight as a pin. Their skin was both pale, their bodies small but sturdy.

I think it’s the smile, the waitress said. You and the woman seem to be smiling at the same thing.

The woman’s Kitty Genovese.

Oh. The waitress took a moment to process the information. Well, that certainly changes things.

How so? Mona glanced at the waitress’s name tag. Kerri. She liked the name and the simplicity of it. Do you know who she is?

Yeah. Most people do, right? Considering how she died...this photo is just sad. Before, it looked like someone going to their prom. It looked like something nice. Something that someone would look at when they’re nostalgic. Hence, your mom.

Mona glanced at the photo again. This photo could never ever represent nostalgia for her since the Greek root of the word meant a longing for home. Mona couldn’t go home, not even to see her mother, because Montreal had been twisted into a place unrecognizable, except in her dreams. She suspected that Kitty had felt the same way, especially given the new revelations about Kitty’s sexuality. To go home was to confront expectations about your life that were not fully lived out how everyone thought. So, you didn’t go home. You got an apartment in the village and you called your girlfriend your roommate. Maybe that was the distant dread in her eyes, even in spite of a happy green dress. Kitty knew there would be no going back.

So, why do you have Kitty on your computer, Kerri asked, if she’s not your mom?

I’m...I’m working on a dissertation. My dissertation. It’s going to be on her. I think.

You think?

Well, I haven’t had a chance to start it yet. And then it still has to be passed. There is so much hesitation about even declaring what you’re studying before it passes a committee.

Kind of like speaking about the dead? Kerri asked. Like sitting shiva?

Exactly. Or like you don’t want to jinx it. A curse.

Sounds like a committee of witches.

Sort of! Mona said, chuckling easily along with Kerri. Except it’s a bunch of psychology erudite men who you hope have some kind of understanding of your specific subfield.

And your subfield is...the bystander effect?

Mona beamed. Someone knew who she was talking about. She wasn’t just reading and reading and reading anymore; she was engaged in a debate. Research was a communal thing again, even if that community was only located in a diner at the end of a bus route. Her supervisor, Roger Conlin, would obviously know who Kitty Genovese was. Everyone seemed to know her story. But whether or not they knew one version or the other, or used it for their own narrative, was another aspect entirely and nearly impossible to predict. At least Kerri, in some way, seemed to be on the same page as Mona.

I don’t know what part of her story yet I’m going to study, honestly. I think I’m trying to explore what she means in as many different ways as possible before putting pen to paper.

Huh. Well, good luck. Sounds interesting.

Thanks.

Mona shared an extended look as Kerri departed. When Kerri migrated to the next table, she seemed to fall into another conversation just as easily and effortlessly as she had with Mona. Mona’s heart sank as she wondered if her connection had actually been one as strong as she felt it or if Kerri was just good at her job. Being a waitress must have been like play-acting all the time, mirroring people’s emotions so they knew you were there for them. It seemed like nearly as much emotional labour as sex work or therapy—which Carmen Nguyen, Mona’s officemate, would know more about. Mona made a mental note to ask Carmen if she was studying service work in her own research for more insight.

Mona’s gaze drifted to Kitty Genovese again. She could be my mom. She could be my friend. She could...be my girlfriend. Each statement came in a rapid succession, but not one felt intrusive. They all felt true. In another lifetime, perhaps, all of them were true at some point. The photograph wasn’t one of someone who was dead anymore. It was of someone who was smiling with a secret, a secret that would never come to pass.

Mona ate the rest of her eggs across from Kitty, wondering about home.

Kerri set another plate of hash browns and scrambled eggs in front of Absalom Lincoln and Sandra DeVos. Absalom cooed at the unexpected boon while Sandra shook her head.

Kerri, you shouldn’t do this. We didn’t ask for this.

On the house. Kerri gave them a wicked grin, the kind she reserved for only them. You know cops get free coffee.

Since when is this coffee? Sandra asked.

Since I decided that you keep this place safe.

A few weeks into starting her job at Mel’s Place, there had been a homeless person who never left a booth at the front. Kerri sympathized with the man—but knew that Gerry, the supposed owner of Mel’s Place, would be livid since the man was also scaring away customers. She’d made the difficult decision to call the police and spoke to Officer Lincoln on the phone. He’d still been working his way up the ranks, not yet a detective, and he was eager to take the call. As soon as Kerri expressed her reservations—the man was homeless, with no place to go, not ostensibly violent but perhaps mentally ill—he had been immediately sympathetic. Instead of drawing weapons and making a scene, Absalom appeared with a social worker, and the three of them left together.

Ever since, Absalom (and whoever his partner was) not only received free coffee, but whatever food Kerri could give them without alerting Gerry. Since he was mostly an owner in name only and it was Kerri and Roy, the short order cook, who kept the place going, which meant a lot of food went to Absalom’s regular spot at the counter.

He lapped up the hash browns happily, talking in an animated voice about how many more carbs he needed today anyway after all the running he’d done this morning, while Sandra continued to shake her head. I thank you for the sentiment, but unlike my partner here, my belt does not appreciate potatoes. I’m going to pass.

Suit yourself. You want the eggs or…? Absalom soon took Sandra’s unwanted plate as she stood from the counter. She excused herself to the bathroom while Kerri wiped down her spot and the surrounding counter.

When the front bell rang, Kerri noticed the woman from the front booth had left. It was nearly one in the morning, when the last bus would run back into town, so she figured the woman was trying to catch a ride. It was clear she was a student, though much higher in ranking than most of the other kids who came in here for coffee to water down their hangovers. The woman’s books and computer had been open the entire time she was in her booth, utterly consumed by her work. Each time Kerri had filled her coffee cup, though, she had smiled and whispered a thank-you in a faintly French-accented voice.

Kerri walked over to collect the dishes in the booth and a few dollars in tips. Underneath a stack of napkins was a printed-off photo of Kitty Genovese. Kerri couldn’t decipher if the photo was left by accident or on purpose, but she settled the image into her back pocket either way. The woman really did remind her of Kitty, even if Kitty had met a terrible fate. Kerri hoped the woman would return for a study session, if only to reaffirm that she would not meet the same end.

Hey, Ker, Absalom asked. You got a minute?

Sure. Kerri dropped the dishes by Manny’s dishwasher station and headed back over to Absalom. She topped his coffee as he fidgeted with a file half in and out of his briefcase.

I was wondering if I could get your opinion, he began, his voice hovering in a lower register.

Without Sandra?

Absalom gave an uneasy smile. You don’t know any of this.

Kerri gave a zipper motion across her lips. Secrets are always safe with me. I’m basically a priest at this point. Or a psychic. Probably a psychic, right? Do police still use psychics on the down-low? Or is that a seventies thing that has now faded out like hypnosis?

Absalom rolled his eyes. Their banter was a long-standing routine, established to no doubt make Absalom feel better about soliciting her help. When she’d known exactly how to deal with the homeless man in the restaurant and then been able to suss out what kids entered the diner had fake IDs, he’d understood that she was good at reading people. She revealed she was a writer then; it was part of her job to imagine people’s actions from different perspectives and for not-so-common motivations.

So, hit me with it, Kerri said. What do you have?

A couple really strange break-ins.

Absalom and Sandra were part of the burglary crime unit—the property patrol as he dubbed it—and most of their cases were cut and dried. A house was robbed of a laptop and DVDs, all to be pawned within forty-eight hours, and then that money was used for drugs. Peterborough’s population was made up of mostly retirees dependent on social assistance, along with transient students who only lived in the area from September to April when the school year was in full swing. Then there were the long-standing, tenured professors who made the university possible and lived in the much better side of town under heavier lock and key. The summer months were the worst for petty and property crimes since the university staff with fancy houses went on vacation and the drug community became desperate without the students to prey on. The crimes were as standard as animals waking up from hibernation in early spring; a new wave of break-ins was surely coming and made even worse because of the recession. Kerri had only been able to help with one of Absalom’s cases before, when a burglar had also taken women’s underwear and clothing in addition to the typical things snatched. Absalom had been stumped because the clothing had no pawning value, so he considered the burglar a woman until Kerri saw the sentimental value in the stolen object. This wasn’t a woman—but a boyfriend or ex-boyfriend who wanted to get back with the intended target, perhaps even a stalker unknown to the resident before now. As it turned out, the victim had rejected a co-worker a week before her house was hit. When they checked his residence, the computer had been there—not pawned—and loaded with a bunch of violent pornography with the woman’s face superimposed over top.

So, when Absalom wanted Kerri’s help again, she expected another panty raid. Instead, he presented her with a house that had nothing stolen at all.

Are you sure it’s actually nothing, or is it something that the people don’t want you to know about—like sex toys or porn? she asked.

We considered that. But there’s more here. The residents don’t exactly have much shame. Absalom gestured to the file but didn’t open it. For confidentiality, he couldn’t show her anything with information on it. Talking in hypotheticals like this was risky, too, but worth it from his vantage point. First of all, these were students. A frat house, it seems, but I didn’t even know Peterborough had frat houses. There were porn DVDs on the shelf like they were Oscar winners. So, when I asked twice, and they still said no, nothing was stolen, I tend to believe them. And that house, like the other two on the same block, was definitely broken into. The locks were smashed. Books tossed.

What about insurance scam? You know, report a break-in and make it seem real to get some kind of repair damage while not actually risking losing anything?

Sandra thought of that. It’s a good thought. But this has happened in more than one house, and there are no commonalities among the landlords or tenants or anything like that. There wasn’t even insurance on one of the houses hit. The frat house. Also, those guys insisted there was food eaten.

Hmm. Like the person was living there?

Absalom nodded.

"Yikes.