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Cameo Renae
Category:
Young Adult/Teen
Publisher: Cameo Renae
ISBN-10: 1461083990
Type: Fiction
Pages: 242
Copyright: April 2011
ISBN-13: 9781461083993
Price: $0.99 (eBook)
What happens when you die? Some cross-over but some linger. That's what happens when Michael Young is murdered. He refuses to cross-over knowing that the murderer is now after his girlfriend Elizabeth Hayes. He must warn her and the easiest way is in her dreams.
It was happening again. The dreams. The nightmares. It was something that seventeen year-old Elizabeth Hayes thought she’d outgrown; dreams that would come true; detailed premonitions of how people would die. This time she dreams about her boyfriend, Michael Young, and soon finds out that he has been found... dead.
He has not crossed over because he was murdered, and now the murderer is after Lizzy. His spirit won't rest until she is safe. As a newbie spirit, the easiest way for him to make contact is through Lizzy's dreams. When she dreams, it's as if he hasn't died.
Lizzy must learn to pull on her inner strength to survive horrifying events, and is faced with a most difficult decision. Would she risk her life to save her best friend and the very person responsible for Michael's death?
Meanwhile, Michael learns everything he can about his supernatural gifts to help. But will it be enough to save her?
Excerpt
Chapter 1
I staggered through darkened woods.
The air was dense and musty. A white mist concealed the cold, damp earth beneath my feet while a thick overgrowth of tangled trees surrounded me. Although the moon’s faint glow illuminated my immediate surroundings, an ominous, eerie feeling lingered in the air, shooting chills up my spine.
I needed to get out of here, quickly.
Looking to the moon as my guide, I began to maneuver through the wooded maze, searching for an exit. My bare feet continuously slipped on moss-covered roots, and a carpet of old, damp leaves. Cracking branches alerted me to something lurking in the shadows, very near. I turned, only to see the looming darkness and forged on, desperately seeking a way out.
Why the hell am I here?
Branches snapped again, this time even closer. I glanced over my shoulder as a dark hooded figure layered in shredded cloaks emerged, hovering just above the mist. A wave of dread surged through my veins, awakening my senses. I wanted to run, but my legs were weighted with fear. The terror continued to approach, but my body was frozen and my knees buckled, causing me to fall.
“Get up, Liz. You need to get up,” a voice shouted from the darkness.
I knew the voice.
“Michael,” I screamed, twisting my head in all directions to catch any glimpse of him.
“Liz, run!”
“Michael, where are you?” I called, anxiously scrambling in the direction I’d last heard his voice.
A glowing orb flitted among the trees just ahead of me, and then slowly began taking a human shape. Michael stood with his hands outstretched, beckoning me to come. His gleaming brown eyes were comforting; his countenance luminous, resembling a porcelain angel.
“Michael,” I cried, reaching out to him.
I slipped right before we touched, falling hard to the cold earth. I glanced up, focusing on his glowing face. His smile immediately brightened everything around me. Reaching out to him, he disappeared, and I was alone in the dark again.
Dozens of red eyes blazed in the darkness, attentively watching my every move. Vociferous cackles resonated like wicked hyenas seeking their prey. I pushed on, struggling through the thick brush, hurting, clawing, and lacerating my skin. Every effort to leave the dark labyrinth of hell seemed futile. I was weak, I was exhausted and I was ready to give up when I finally pushed out of the trees into a clearing.
A small cabin rested directly in the center, peacefully silhouetted in the moonlight. Without a second thought, I raced for the shelter. I didn’t turn back. I couldn’t, sensing the dark creature was still in pursuit. When I arrived, the door was ajar so I easily pushed it open and slammed it shut behind me, pressing my back against it. I tried to catch my breath, shivering at the thought of whatever else could be lurking in the pitch-black room. I rubbed the walls on either side for a light switch. Nothing. Only cold, hard wood.
The cabin shook violently just before a door directly across from me burst open. Then, two more doors on the opposite walls thrust open, slamming hard against the outside walls. My heart hammered, echoing through my head as my palms cupped hard against my ears.
A chilled wind swirled through the three open doors, whistling a song of terror. I forced my quivering legs to the first door, but as soon as I shut it, the door I’d just left flew open.
What the hell?
As I glanced through the opening, I witnessed the dark creature emerging from the woods, heading straight toward me. My heart beat furiously against the walls of my chest, begging me to run.
A normal person would’ve run, but I'd never been so scared in my life. I was one of those irritating people who froze - like in the movies. The characters I frustratingly yelled at. They could have run and got away but froze instead.
“Michael, where are you?” I screamed. Tears streamed down my cold cheeks. My legs wavered, barely holding me up, but I gathered every ounce of strength left in me to shut the remaining doors.
I shivered with fear as a high wind wailed around the cabin, followed by all four doors simultaneously flying open, bashing hard against the outside walls. I stood helpless and terrified as the cabin tremored around me.
Everything from that point seemed to move in slow motion. I dropped to the ground, pushing myself back to the furthest corner and watched as the creature hovered through the front door. The air became ice cold.
The figure stopped inches from me. Its face was shrouded in an over-sized cowl, torn and shredded, and through those rags, I saw death. Decayed skin clung to the bones of a shriveled corpse-like face. The putrid stench of rotting flesh burned my nostrils. Weathered robes dripping with crimson were tainted with the smell of copper and salt.
My breath ceased as the creature slowly lifted its withered appendage. A decrepit hand with long shriveled fingers shot toward my face. I screamed, clenching my eyes shut and shielding my face with my arms.
“No!” A familiar voice yelled.
I opened my eyes to witness a blinding white light shoot through a side door, straight into the center of the creature. It stumbled back, screaming and writhing in pain, grasping the scorched flesh where the light entered it. Agonizing screams reverberated off the cabin walls, piercing my eardrums. Streams of light shot from its orifices as the brilliant light intensified. Then, the creature exploded, shattering into a million tiny sparks which were carried out the door by the wind.
Breathless, I awoke on my couch. My forehead was drenched in sweat, my mouth was bone dry. Shaken from the dream, I stumbled to the kitchen for water.
The last time I’d had such vivid dreams, actually nightmares, was as a child. They’d haunted me to my core. Over time, I learned these dreams were not merely dreams but actually warnings of what was to come.
These weren’t the kind of dreams which left you with warm, fuzzy feelings. They were dreams of death – details of how people would die.
Premonitions are what my grandmother used to call them; a gift of foresight given to a chosen few. To me, it was a curse. I was too young to possess such a gift. The dreams terrified me, and I was never allowed to tell anyone outside of our family about them. It was a secret. One my parents weren’t very proud of.
At the age of seven, the dreams suddenly stopped. At the time, I was thankful to finally be rid of the affliction because I’d been dealing with the divorce of my parents.
A roaring engine approached my driveway. I dashed to the window and tugged back the curtain to see if Michael had finally arrived. My anticipation quickly turned to disappointment when a battered red truck sputtered by, and my frozen driveway remained barren.
It was December in Alaska and we had yet to see any snow. The town of Wasilla seemed bare and dismal, anxiously awaiting the beloved white magic that would deliver some winter fun and fade the dirty brown hues of our seasonal purgatory.
Winter days loomed in darkness, providing four to five hours of usable daylight, if that. The sun would peek out around noon, and then hide away by four in the afternoon, leaving us enveloped in darkness for a long nineteen hours. Although, whenever I was with Michael, I never really noticed the dark. Everything always seemed brighter when he was around.
I glanced over at the digital clock resting atop my television. Bright red numbers illuminated 6:02 P.M., reminding me he was late. I sucked in a long deep breath and tried to relax, but my twisting stomach made it nearly impossible. What was taking him so long? This was so unlike Michael. He was over an hour late, and I hadn’t received one phone call to let me know why.
Tonight was extra special, and I knew he was just as excited as I was.
Michael Young was my boyfriend, but more importantly, he was my best friend. We were inseparable from the moment we met at age five. Our relationship was never complicated, it just was.
Today was December fourth, four years to the day when he’d asked me out. For the past three years, on the night of our anniversary, he’d planned surprises that were entirely random and adventurous.
Last year, he drove me to the North Pole to visit the Santa Claus House. The town was decorated with candy cane lampposts, and street signs with Christmas names and decorations. I actually sat on Santa's red velvety lap, tugged on his realistic white beard, and whispered my secret wishes into his hairy, wax-filled ear. Michael must have struck a deal with the jolly ‘ol guy, because I got exactly what I’d wanted that Christmas.
I was anxious to see what surprise he had in store for me this year. He was way too good at keeping secrets while I, on the other hand, was horrible at waiting.
I sneezed, breaking my momentary trance. The brown suede curtain I grasped in my hand was severely dusty.
6:06 P.M. - the clock jested. Minutes dragged slowly as I wrestled with my thoughts. I’d have to call him just one more time to ease my troubled mind. This would be my fifth and final attempt. Hopefully.
I dug through my new Coach handbag, a graduation gift from Michael’s parents, grabbed my cell phone and pressed two, Michael’s speed-dial number. It rang once and went straight to his answering service.
“Michael, where are you?” I asked in a high tone, trying hard not to sound upset. “Call me, ASAP. Okay? I love you. Bye.” I forcefully punched the hang-up button multiple times. Then, I checked the phone’s volume, confirming it was at max before I laid it on the kitchen counter next to the gift I’d bought him.
His gift was wrapped in light blue paper with silver iridescent snowflakes evenly placed around it. In the center, was a matching ribbon tied into a bow, which had taken a lot of practice to get just right.
The box held a black leather jacket from the men’s boutique at the Fifth Avenue Mall. Michael looked at it every time we went in. Of course, I knew he didn’t own one and there was no doubt he’d look incredible in it.
Waiting, I decided to grab my mini vacuum and attempt to suck the dust clinging desperately to my curtains. The suction wasn’t good. In fact, it failed miserably at its job, making the dust clump together, looking worse than it did before.
“You’re fired,” I yelled at the vacuum in frustration, tossing it into the trash under the kitchen sink. Not long after, I sighed and proceeded to dig it back out, reluctantly placing it back on its charger. I couldn’t throw it away. It was helpful some of the time, sucking up bugs and other gross things I didn’t want to touch.
Whatever. I sighed, glancing back over to the clock again, 6:11 P.M.
“Ouch!” I grabbed the back of my neck as an intense pain pierced it, almost as if something had bitten me. But I couldn’t feel anything.
A sudden wave of nausea followed, making me bolt for the bathroom. Lightheaded and queasy, I almost felt like I’d been drugged. My world began spinning wildly. Tingles, chills, and a cold sweat blanketed my body.
I pressed my back against the bathroom wall and slid to the floor, resting my forehead on my knees. I tried to take in slow deep breaths, but heavy pressure and pain began to emanate through my chest. I curled up into a fetal position on the floor praying it would stop.
Am I dying?
I crawled over to the toilet and heaved. My weakened body trembled as I pulled myself up to the sink, rinsed my mouth, and splashed cold water on my face.
“Great,” I sighed, staring at the pitiful reflection in the mirror. The hour I’d spent tediously putting on my makeup was totally wasted. Black smudges of mascara ran unevenly under my red swollen eyes, and any trace of color washed off my pale face. I looked like a Gothic clown.
With my luck, Michael would be pulling in any minute now. I was sour, glaring at the horrid reflection of what I always thought was an average girl. I wasn’t strong or extraordinary like Michael, not even close.
Michael was my complete opposite, which goes to show, the old adage “opposites attract” was genuine, after all. He was very athletic, excelling in every sport he played. Michael came from a wealthy family, while mine was poor. He was also a straight A student. I had B's mostly. Not too bad considering my upbringing.
He had two loving, happily married parents. Mine divorced when I was seven.
My mother was once a stay at home seamstress who could sew just about anything. She had a line of women’s clothes, which she designed and sold on consignment to a specialty boutique down on the strip. Her clothes were in high demand and she had trouble keeping up with orders. My dad was a tall, handsome construction worker, who left us on a whim and moved to Florida with his much younger girlfriend.
The day was forever burned into my memory, leaving an invisible, ugly scar. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon; Mom and I went grocery shopping for the usual weekly things. While we were gone, my dad managed to pack all of his stuff, leaving nothing but a horrible “Dear Jane” letter on the kitchen counter.
At seven years old I had no clue what to think. I didn’t understand why my dad and all of his things were missing, or why mom had locked herself in the bedroom. I remembered resting my ear on her door, listening to her weep in between deep sobs and muffled curses.
My stomach had a funny, achy feeling inside – a feeling I’d never experienced before and couldn’t explain. I just knew something was very wrong, and everything was about to change in the Hayes household.
My mother stayed locked in her room for the rest of the evening. It was the first night I’d ever been to bed without dinner. It was the first time I’d put myself to bed, no one to tuck me in or kiss me goodnight, and it was the first time I said my prayers alone.
We didn’t hear much from my father after that, with the exception of his monthly child support check. It completely devastated my mother. The man she’d given her heart and life to, cheated on her and left without a single word of warning.
She had been an incredible woman, a stunning brunette full of life and happiness. She was a role model, an excellent mother, a loving wife, and a successful business owner.
The divorce steadily drained her. Pain, wrapped with anger, started to change her mentally and physically, eating away at her very core. The strong mother I’d once known had folded under the pressure and took the easy way out. She now spent most of her days drowning her pain with alcohol and sleeping pills, slowly withering away into an empty shell.
Our once happy home underwent foreclosure. My mother couldn’t carry the mortgage note alone, so we were forced to move into a run-down, two-bedroom apartment in Palmer, barely surviving on welfare.
As I entered high school, I finally made my first adult decision. I moved out on my own. The stresses of my home life were taking a major toll on my studies and personal life. I had taken the role of being head of my household at too young of an age. Cooking, cleaning, and putting my mother to bed was a daily routine. I’d finally had enough. That’s when an unusual opportunity presented itself.
Emily Martin, my best girlfriend, begged me to move into her parent’s cottage, which had become vacant. They agreed to accept a low rent of two hundred dollars per month, which I could afford with my part-time job. Plus, it was only a twenty-minute drive from my mother, who I could check on regularly.
The cottage was log style, built with the warm knotty pines which grew along the edge of the Martin’s five-acre lot. Its red shingled roof and painted red door stood out amongst the green. During the summer, it was tucked away behind blooming trees and foliage. Its well-manicured lawn was edged with lilacs and wildflowers.
Emily’s mom made the mistake of letting her husband choose the guts of the cottage. The cabinets, countertops, and appliances ended up being a dull white. He obviously never watched a home decorating show. At least the flooring, a natural brown slate, and the warm blonde walls, broke the monotonous white.
It had one bedroom, which I artistically accented in lime green, aqua blue, orange, pink and chocolate brown. The living area perfectly fit my oversized brown suede couch, accented with multi-colored throw pillows and my twenty-nine inch television. The small kitchen was open to the living area and still had most of its original appliances – all in adequate shape, considering they were over ten years old. With Michael and Emily’s help, we turned the place into a warm, rainbow-like haven. The bright colors made it a happy place even during the darkest of days.
I grabbed a few cotton balls from the cabinet, slathered makeup remover under my eyes, and attempted to wipe away the black mess running down my cheeks. After digging through my makeup bag, I dabbed on some concealer, buffed on some powder and blush and slathered pink gloss across my lips. That was as good as it was going to get. I didn’t want to spend another hour tediously re-applying makeup. I never really liked wearing it anyway. The feeling of liquid and powder suffocating my skin just didn’t feel right. I preferred to be natural, a plain Jane, with a touch of eyeliner and gloss. Michael didn’t seem to mind, which was all that mattered anyway.
I stared at my reflection, completely dumbfounded by the horrible feelings which had overcome me. Nothing like that had ever happened before. I wondered if there was something wrong with the water I drank.
Michael told me to be ready by five, but five had long come and gone. He was supposed to be picking me up in his brand-new, black Porsche 911 Carrera, a graduation gift from his parents. It was expensive, luxurious and a complete contradiction to my busted old Jeep. He however, was excited to take me for a drive, and I was equally excited to ride shotgun.
I sighed loudly and shook my head, guessing I should cut him some slack. This was the first time he’d ever been late. Maybe he’d just forgotten to pick something up. But what if he forgot me?
My eighteenth birthday was fast approaching. I was finally going to be an adult; a significant turning point in my life. Michael had planned on taking me away on a vacation, and it would be my first trip on an airplane. The thought made butterflies twist happily in my stomach.
I ambled to my brown suede couch, plopped down and sunk deep into its fluffy cushions. I shoved a few pillows under my head, grabbed the remote control, and turned on the TV hoping it would distract my thoughts until he arrived.
Not shortly afterward, I felt my eyelids drooping. My couch seemed to have that effect on all of its occupants. It was just too comfortable. I fought to stay awake, but my eyelids were winning this battle. Besides, Michael had a key. He could come in and get me.
I glanced at the clock one last time and it was seven-thirty.
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