Chasing MHC, Part 3

This is a series. Read Part 1 and Part 2 first!

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**Trigger warning: This part contains a short section of violent content.**

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The days were becoming so cool and clear, you could smell the frost in the air. The nighttime crisp rolled in, and the Christmas season drew closer. I’d assembled my tree, and now set to work stringing on the lights. 

After that, I’d hang my angel ornament, a delicate, glass-blown creation that my sister bought me the year she died. She’d chosen one in a sparkly seasonal red, and gotten my name inscribed in calligraphy at the bottom. I’d treasured it ever since.

A funny thing about siblings: When they were too close, they seemed to linger in every corner of your life whether you wanted them there or not. But after they were gone, you saw them in the parallel shadows of your vision, causing you to fight off that creeping blanket of loneliness that their absence created. Hanging that ornament gave her a place for a little while.

Every year I would hang it on a particularly sturdy branch, then tuck it into the tree to keep it safe, the way my sister had kept me safe when I was little. But this year when I opened its little gift box, I found that its wings had broken off, literally like a fallen angel. 

I was momentarily stunned. I gaped and looked at it quizzically, as if it held some sort of answer. But its silent, broken stare only fed my dismay. A hot, dizzy sensation began to writhe its way up my spine, and I had to sit down.

A strange darkness crept into my consciousness as I sat there with the broken ornament in my hand. Even the lights on the Christmas tree seemed to dim a bit, as if portending that something ominous approached.

I couldn’t think about mending the ornament right then — my hands were shaking with too much emotion to even be able to hold a glue bottle steady. I decided that my best option was to put it out of sight for a little while. So I wrapped it up in tissue paper and pulled down the stiff, creaky attic stairs. 

The winter chill rushed down from the unfinished area and made me shiver, but I climbed up to place the ornament at the top of the crawl space.

Slight movement at the window near the front of the space made me whirl and jump, and then I laughed at myself. I’d clearly been watching too many scary movies lately while researching for my book. The movement was likely nothing more than the headlights of a passing car, or a restless tree branch shifting in the wind.  

Still, my nerves had become more frayed than they should. Perhaps I needed to lay off the films for a bit. Even MHC would hit a wall with her writing sometimes, after all. And if Mary, Queen of Suspense, put down her pen on occasion, I could justify my decision to do so as well.

And admittedly, my world and perspective had become smaller and a bit distorted the more laser focused I became on my murder mystery. 

That realization had hit a couple months ago, on one of the last warm days of fall: While having coffee on my front porch, I’d watched my neighbor finish replanting some bulbs for winter, and had casually wondered if he’d killed his wife and buried her under them.

So I shook it off, laughed a little at myself again, and climbed back down the ladder, resolving to spend the rest of the evening enjoying the approaching winter storm. I do love this type of weather, especially at night. 

I sleep more soundly, and my blanket feels warmer, cozier somehow, when I hear the wind howling outside, or watch the shadows of snowflakes as they fall softly in clusters to the ground.

One evening after I got home, I decided it was time to glue my angel ornament back together. I’d been feeling out of sorts all day, like something was hanging over me, watching me, and that angel represented a little bit of safety. Besides, Christmas wouldn’t be the same without it, and the tree needed decorating anyway.

I found myself actually excited at the prospect once I’d decided to move forward. I would put my writing and research aside and put some Christmas music on Pandora. I’d start the gas fireplace, bring all the ornaments down from the attic, and treat myself to a nice glass of Merlot while decorating the tree. 

I gave the usual hard yank on the pull-down stairs, and had to jump aside quickly as they slid down with uncharacteristic smoothness. I supposed they were ready for me too. I climbed up carefully, the steps acting more like a ladder with their ninety-degree slant. 

I grabbed for my angel ornament, intending to take it down by itself before collecting the rest, when something sliced my finger. I gasped, then remembered that I hadn’t put the ornament back in its original box — the jagged pieces had poked through the tissue paper.

Pulling myself into the attic, I handled the ornament cautiously as I tugged at the cord for the light to check the damage to my finger. Then I stopped, frozen in place. 

A small canvas duffle bag sat tucked neatly beside a rolled-out sleeping bag near my attic window. To the side of that lay a neatly folded collection of my clothing that I thought I’d lost in the laundromat.

My feet felt leaden, rooted in place against the unfinished attic floor. Fear and disbelief settled over me like a heavy, disorienting fog. Someone was living in my home. Someone had avoided my porch camera, stayed silent when I might have heard, and remained hidden against all odds. But who? 

That’s when I felt a warmth on the back of my neck, and then a whispered, “Boo!”

My heart stopped for a second. I think that’s the only reason I didn’t let out an instant shriek and fly for that ladder. That and the fear-fog. Somehow still steady on my feet, I turned around slowly, instinctively realizing that I had to quiet my nerves, maintain a semblance of normalcy, and somehow slow my now-racing heartbeat.

“Ethan,” I managed in a whisper. I hoped my smile looked authentic, but my staring eyes refused to blink. The fear enveloping me would be a dead giveaway, and then what would he do?

“Hey!” he said with a grin. “Surprised?”

I could only nod, not trusting my voice.

“Oh, no — did I startle you? Sorry about that. I’ve just been waiting for this day for so long. Here, I’ve got a little something for you, to sort of memorialize this moment.” He pulled a box out of his front shirt pocket. A velvet ring box. I swallowed.

He opened it to display a heart-shaped amethyst ring, set with a little diamond on each side. The bracelet I’d found on my bureau immediately came to mind. I looked at it, then at him, at a total loss for words.

“It’s amethyst,” he said, still grinning. “It’s our special stone, Elaine, because it’s believed to have protective qualities. You see?”

I shook my head, still staring blankly at him.

“Protective, Elaine — just like me,” Ethan pointed a thumb at his chest and raised his chin a little. “I’ve been protecting you against Brody. Do you know how many times I’ve seen him drive by your home? I had no choice but to move in.”

My voice finally returned. “But — how do you know how often he came by?”

“Because I’ve been safeguarding you for months! Since before we even met officially! I’ve even been checking your mail, just to make sure Brody didn’t slip anything by me,” he explained. “Remember the rose bouquet? That was my special message to you that you’d be safe forever!

When I didn’t respond right away, his voice turned up an octave or two. “Elaine! Are you understanding the importance of what I’m saying? I’ve cleared the way for us to be together, without worrying about him!” His voice echoed off the attic walls. It vibrated right through me, and shook something loose inside. My thoughts started to make sense in my head again.

“Of course, Ethan, I get it,” I said. I would say anything just to get out of that attic space now, so I prattled on. “And that’s really so sweet. You knew how concerned I was and that I would appreciate your help.” I took a breath, daring to ask, “But what about your wife? And your child? I don’t want to come between them and you.”

Ethan laughed. “There is no wife! And no child either, so no worries there!”

“But — I saw the car seat—”

“Oh, that.” He chuckled. “It’s kind of a prop. Don’t be mad, but I need it in my line of work. It makes people feel safe when they think I’m the dad of a little one, you know? So you see, there’s nothing standing between us!”

Then he reached for me, and I flinched. I couldn’t help it, but I think that’s when he first suspected that these feelings he’d been harboring for me weren’t mutual. And when I took a careful step back, out of his reach, still trying to smile, his eyes darkened, and a flush began to creep up his neck. 

I tried to hold his gaze while also thumbing my phone to call 911. It didn’t work. He noticed and made a grab for my phone, but I maintained my grip and began to scramble backward, away from him.

“You’re trying to call for help?” he screeched at me. “This is how you’re going to treat me, after all these months of sacrifice I’ve made for you?”

He lunged again for the phone, but tripped on a storage bin, causing him to stumble and hit the bare bulb of the attic light, which began swaying back and forth. He snatched the phone from my hand. It went flying, and I screamed, hoping against hope that the call had gone through, and that they’d hear.

The shadows spun in dizzying circles as the bulb swayed around. Ethan was standing up, blocking my exit. Adrenaline rushed through me in turbulent waves, and as he stepped toward me, I used the only weapon I could think of — the “fallen angel”, still in my hand. As he came at me, I thrust the jagged edge into his neck and twisted it as forcefully as I could.

His eyes bulged as he grabbed at his neck and staggered off balance. I took what I felt was my only chance for survival, and pushed him back toward the attic ladder, doing my best to maintain my own balance. He fell with a gurgling scream, but landed in a silent, heavy thud, his left leg at an odd angle.

This was my opportunity to get to safety. I thought I heard some commotion from the front stairwell, and hoped it was my landlord coming up to investigate — Ethan’s fall had been pretty loud, after all. 

I started down the ladder stairs slowly, trying to control the spasms of fear coursing through me. Ethan’s blood spattered several of the steps, and I had to step carefully to avoid them. I could now definitely hear someone banging on my front door, and prayed that it was either my landlord or the cops. Any cop. Even Brody.

As I stepped off the ladder, I saw little paw prints of blood, leading away from the mangled mess on the floor, and I breathed out a deep sigh of relief. Felix had apparently scampered away to his safe place, behind the living room sofa.

I stepped as far away from Ethan’s body as possible, but as I passed him, his hand jerked out to grip my ankle. I staggered, lost my balance, and fell with a shriek, hitting my head hard on the floor. Ethan stared at me, his eyes as dark as the nighttime sky, and I felt blood trickling down my face. 

My head felt heavy, and the room spun. I’d lost my angel. Tears welled and made my vision worse. I didn’t want my story to end this way, lying next to some sociopath that I’d unwittingly let into my life.

And that’s when, in my semi-conscious state, I heard the front door being unlocked and thrown open, and the sound of a familiar voice — though whose voice, I couldn’t say for sure — coming towards me. Then darkness descended.

***

At the hospital after they’d evaluated me, Brody filled me in on the details.

The landlord had called 911, and although Brody was not the cop called to the scene, he heard my address on the police radio and raced over. After instructing the landlord to open the door but wait outside, Brody and his fellow officer came bounding up the stairs into my apartment. They called for an ambulance right after. 

Ethan’s survival was questionable at that point. He’d lost a lot of blood and landed hard. They’d hauled him away to a hospital, where he now remained under arrest, handcuffed to the hospital bed and under the watchful eye of a law enforcement officer. 

I’d suffered a concussion, stitches, and sprained ankle, hardly necessitating a hospital overnight, I thought, but the doctor kept me for observation anyway.

According to Brody, the “scene had been processed”, and the landlord had locked everything up. The next evening, I tried to relax as I’d intended that previous night — with a glass of Merlot as the fireplace warmed the room. I found that it did help to chase away the chill of those awful memories. 

Brody helped me to finish hanging the Christmas ornaments on the tree, as Felix looked on lazily from the overstuffed chair he’d claimed long ago. Even my angel ornament once again hung securely on its sturdy branch, having been cleaned up and repaired by Brody. Oddly, it didn’t evoke bad memories for me; in fact, I kind of thought of her as my avenging angel.

Brody and I have since become close again. Nancy and Irene ask me all the time if we’re dating again, but it’s hard to say at this point. I’m not excluding the possibility. I mean, the man did save my life, but I’d guess we both have a few issues to work out first.

I probably owe him at least another chapter in my book — the villain turns hero, perhaps?

And while I’d still love to see that awards ceremony happen, I’m learning to obsess a little less over MHC. After all, in the end, it did turn out that she and I have a connection, but it’s not at all what I was imagining — she wrote murder mysteries, and I lived through one.

Maybe no one actually died — with the possible exception of Matt, who is still missing — but I shudder to think what might have happened without that angel in my hand. It’s not exactly the ending I’d hoped for: It’s not one that might lead to Mary and I becoming family friends, for sure, but I haven’t lost my determination to write a book that she’d consider worthy.

And looking at the bright side, I did get some raw material for my novel, and the story got coverage in the local papers, giving me about 15 minutes of fame. It’s not the type I’d dreamed of, but hey, it’s still something. And truth be told, I did come off as a minor celebrity for a bit. 

And as for that bestselling novel? Well, as MHC would say, “If it’s meant to be, it will happen naturally.”

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This story might be done, but our collection of other creative works continues!

• Vacation to the Dragons of Io, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 – Christmas-time science fantasy fiction
• A Dream – Mystery Fiction
• The Never – Mental Illness Poetry
• I Remember – Poetry Reading