Unforsaken

UNFORSAKEN

By Melissa Burnett

UNFORSAKEN

Copyright 2011 Melissa Burnett

ISBN 978-0-9837698-1-1

Smashwords Edition

Chapter 1

Scrubbing toilets wasn't my first choice in making a living, but my first choice hadn't worked out so well. Cleaning was okay. It paid the bills, and it gave me a chance to impose order on chaos.

It also led me to Natasha Gould.

She called on the evening of March 17. It had been the kind of Texas spring day so filled with sunshine I wished I could wrap myself in the air like a burrito. It was a Wednesday, which meant I'd spent the late afternoon and early evening making love with Jake--his wife had meetings on Wednesdays. I was sitting on my balcony enjoying the breeze and a mental replay of the evening when my phone rang. The number wasn't familiar, so I answered with my professional voice.

Lisi Reynolds, Fresh Start Cleaning Service.

This is Natasha Gould, she said. One of Brenna Montgomery's clients?

I'd never heard a more timid voice in my life. She sounded like a gnat would knock her over. Yes, I said. Brenna was my best friend, a self-employed massage therapist. We tried to help each other out by referring clients back and forth. What can I do for you?

She didn't answer. I thought maybe I'd dropped the call. Ms. Gould?

I'm here, she said. She lapsed back into silence.

In that silence, I felt the first trace of something wrong. It was a tickle at the base of my brain. I fought off an urge to hang up on her.

You clean houses? she asked.

Maybe she was a little touched in the head. If Brenna had referred her to me, she had to know I cleaned houses. That's right.

Have you ever cleaned a haunted house?

It was my turn not to answer. I frowned out at the apartment complex grounds below me and replayed that sentence. It still meant the same thing when I ran it through my head a second time.

Ms. Reynolds?

Yes. Then I realized how she might take that. I mean, yes I'm still here. No, I've never cleaned a haunted house. I ran my tongue over my lower lip, but my tongue felt as dry as my lip, and it didn't help. Is your house haunted?

Either it is or I am.

I voted for choice B but decided I should keep that to myself.

It's dirty, in any case, and I'd like to have you come out. I hurt my back several months ago. I'm afraid I've let things go.

Great. My favorite type of first-time clean, the old I'm-afraid-I've-let-things-go. That usually meant dust an inch thick and layers of soap scum on the shower doors. However, I've-let-things-go customers often wanted weekly service so they never had to think about cleaning again. Once I got past the first time, they were easy houses to keep up.

Unless they were haunted.

I usually schedule a time to view the house and do a free estimate, I said. Then we'd discuss what you're looking at for the first-time clean and for regular service, if you choose to schedule.

That would be wonderful. How soon could you do that?

Hang on. I got up and went through the sliding glass door into my apartment, then sat on the couch while I paged through my planner. Atticus, my cat, started head-butting my ankles. According to Att, if I sat down I obviously wanted to give him attention.

I could come out tomorrow around 4:00, if you want.

That would be wonderful, she said again.

I got her address and directions to her house, though I'd use my GPS to make sure I got there. Over the last four years I'd been astonished to discover how many people couldn't give accurate directions to their own homes. Even as I wrote the address in my planner, I wondered if I'd regret making the appointment. Natasha Gould didn't sound like all her lights were on. It was just an estimate interview, though, not a lifetime commitment.

I'll see you tomorrow, then, she said.

Yes. I should have hung up, but my traitor mouth asked the next question before I could stop it. What makes you think your house is haunted?

She laughed. I broke out in gooseflesh. I scooped Atticus onto my lap and buried my fingers in his fur. Natasha's laugh sounded like a split-track recording, two people laughing at once, as if she were flickering between herself and some ancient crone.

Maybe I won't show up for the appointment, I thought, though I'd never done such a thing in my life.

I hear things, Natasha said. I want to know if you can hear them too.

*****

Don't give my business card to insane people anymore.

Brenna grinned. Natasha Gould called?

Yes. I'm going out there tomorrow. And I hope she doesn't chop me up and bury me in the cellar.

Don't be ridiculous, Brenna said. Houses in Texas don't have cellars.

Brenna had come over around 9:00. She lived in the apartment below me and often came up to visit after she got home from her last appointment of the day. Tonight she'd made a snarky comment about figuring it was safe even though it was Wednesday, because there was no tie hanging on my doorknob. She and Jake got along with each other for my sake, but they'd never make each other's top ten lists.

We'd settled in my living room. The TV was still on, but muted. I sat on the couch with a purple afghan Brenna had crocheted for me several Christmases ago puddled in my lap. Brenna sat in my rocking chair with her legs tucked up under her. She was the only person I knew who was more comfortable when she was folded like a pretzel.

You're missing the point here, I said.

Brenna shook her head. I got a bad feeling when I worked on her today.

And you still gave her my card?

I figured you were too practical to pick up on bad vibes.

She thinks her house is haunted.

Really... Brenna got a faraway kind of look in her eyes. I knew that look meant she was thinking, but coupled with her general oddness I sometimes thought she was trying to communicate with the great beyond. She sat up and lowered her feet to the floor. The folds of her skirt stayed tucked up where they had been, so she looked like she was wearing Indian print shorts.

That could have been what I felt, she finally said.

I snorted. Ghosts in her aura? It was easy to joke now that I wasn't hearing her creepy laugh in my ear.

You laugh, but you'd better be careful in that house.

Brenna pulled her legs back into her traditional pretzel position and rearranged her skirt over them. She looked like some kind of guru sitting there, dispensing wisdom. She'd been adopted as an infant and had no idea what her ethnic heritage was, so she'd borrowed a bit from everywhere. She obviously had an exotic mix of genes, because she could look Indian, African or Hispanic depending on what clothes and accessories she wore. No matter what she wore, she always looked regal.

Which meant she was sometimes a royal pain. Brenna was my best friend, and I loved her like a sister, but she sometimes drove me batty like a sister, too.

You think the ghosts will attack me while I'm scrubbing the toilet? Rise up out of the drains to drink my blood?

You're mixing genres, there.

I tucked the edges of the afghan in around my legs. You know I don't believe that supernatural garbage.

Did I ever tell you about the time a handprint appeared on my client's back?

I've lost track of the weird stuff you've told me.

As soon as I touched her, a red handprint appeared on her back, and she started crying.

I've been saying for years you should use a gentler touch.

That wasn't true. Brenna was an amazing massage therapist, and my appointment with her was the highlight of my week--besides Wednesday evenings, anyway. But I didn't like the way the conversation was going, so I had to say something.

Brenna ignored my commentary. She told me later that her dad used to grab her there. His handprint just... She fluttered her hand, looking for a word. ...appeared.

Atticus wandered into the room, stared at Brenna for several seconds, then crossed to the couch and put his front paws on my leg. I shifted so I could scratch behind his ears.

Nope, I said. Not buying the messages from the other side. If Natasha Gould hears noises, she's either crazy or she's got mice. I should take Atticus with me. He'll catch her ghosts.

As if to prove he was willing, Att crouched and leapt up onto my lap. He was really too fat to fit there, but he gave it a good try. I freed one of his claws from where it had snagged on the afghan.

Did I tell you about the tattoo on her lower back?

No. Based on Natasha's voice, I'd been picturing her as a wrinkled old woman. Her voice did not match a tattoo. Especially not a tramp stamp. A real one?

Yeah. It was lovely, but it was awful, too. Hang on.

She got up and headed for the kitchen. It amazed me the way she unfolded herself without even grunting. Made me think I should take up yoga after all.

I wondered what Jake was doing. Grading papers? Having a late dinner with Carolyn? Please, God, not making love to Carolyn.

Brenna came back carrying the pad of paper and pencil I kept on the kitchen counter for making lists. Did you know the message light's blinking on your phone?

That meant one of two things--either telemarketers were getting desperate enough to leave messages, or my mother had called. Everyone else knew my cell was the best way to get hold of me. I hoped for a telemarketer.

I'll get it later, I said. What does this have to do with Natasha's tattoo?

I want to draw it for you. It was so strange. She knelt by the coffee table in front of me. I nudged Atticus off my lap and leaned forward to watch. This isn't exactly right, but it was something like this. Swoops and swirls burst from a dark middle circle, like an elongated pinwheel. I'd need colored pencils to really show you. It was black in the middle, then red, then yellow on the tips. She hesitated, lengthened one swoop, then sat back.

I looked at Brenna's design and got a weird feeling in my stomach. She was right, it was lovely, all graceful and swirly. But there was something sinister about it, too. I glanced at Brenna, frowned, then sat back and pulled Atticus onto my lap again.

What time are you going over there tomorrow?

4:00.

Brenna looked at the design she'd drawn, then tore it out of the notebook and crumpled it into a tight little ball. Call me afterward.

*****

Brenna left around 10:00. I checked my phone and saw I'd missed a text from Jake. Found a long red hair on my shirt. Glad I found it before Carolyn did! Good night. Love you.

I smiled as I wrote a text back. Forget my hair--I want to know how you explain all the cat hair! Love you too.

I sent the text, then decided I'd better listen to the message on my house phone in case it was important. I didn't know why my mother refused to use my cell phone, but I'd given up on trying to change her mind.

Att raced ahead of me to the kitchen. When I got there, he was sitting by his food bowl giving me the look that meant, You can feed me now, or I can shred your pants leg. Your choice. I poured a scoopful of kibble into his dish before I punched the play button on my answering machine. I had no desire to deal with an angry cat. Those claws were sharp.

The robot voice on my phone told me the call came in at 3:30. Elizabeth, this is your mother.

Not only did she refuse my cell phone, she refused my chosen nickname, as well.

Just reminding you about dinner Saturday night. Your father's really looking forward to seeing you.

Doubtful.

And I invited the McKibbons, you remember them. Remember their son Robert? Sounds like he's grown into quite an impressive man, a financial planner. He's in town and he's coming with them Saturday night, so wear something nice.

Great. I knew my mother wanted grandchildren before she was too old to remember their names, but even she had to know setting me up with Robert McKibbon was ridiculous. I'd hated him throughout junior high and high school, when we'd been forced to sit together during Sunday post-church dinners and he'd tried to impress me with his knowledge of Star Trek trivia.

It was only Wednesday. Maybe I had time to drum up a prior engagement. Maybe I could bring Jake to dinner with me--that would really impress Mom.

This is my boyfriend, Jake Pearson. He's an English teacher; we used to work together before I flaked out and went off to scrub toilets. We've been dating two years now. He's been married for ten, but don't worry about that--he loves me, and I love him. It'll all work out eventually.

Sure. Because his wife didn't understand him the way I did. Because she worked too hard and was never there for him. Because the sex with her wasn't nearly as good as the sex with me.

Sometimes I could hear how clichéd it all was. Most of the time, I didn't bother to listen.

Oh, Atticus, I said. Your mom is one messed up cookie.

Att didn't look up from devouring his kibble. He'd heard it all before.

Chapter 2

Natasha Gould's house didn't look haunted. It looked like every other house on the street. Plantation Heights was one of those subdivisions where the builder had used about three blueprints for the whole neighborhood and didn't bother altering them much. There were lots of subdivisions like Plantation Heights in Holt, Texas, seeded between older neighborhoods and apartment complexes overrun with students from Hamilton University across town.

I sat in my car at the curb in front of 1602 Magnolia, a pale green version of the two-story model with wrap-around porch. Creepy tattoo aside, it was hard to look at this house and imagine I had anything to be afraid of. This was a place for backyard barbeques and family board games, not whispering spirits. No one's idea of a haunted house had a twin four doors down.

That didn't mean it would be an easy clean, though. I'd been to houses before that looked inviting from the curb but had nasty surprises waiting inside. Last year I'd shown up for an estimate at a house where the owner had to lead me through a maze of newspaper stacks as high as my waist. Several stacks had dirty dishes piled on top. I wasn't sure how long the dishes had been there, but I guessed several months based on the maggot growth. She wanted me to just dust a little and get the dirt out of the tub. I'd walked out without even finishing the estimate.

Ms. Gould hadn't said how long ago she'd hurt her back and gotten behind in cleaning. Ghosts or not, it could be bad in there.

I will put Chaos into fourteen lines and keep him there, I murmured. It was the beginning of an Edna St. Vincent Milay poem, a bit of detritus from my other life, the years I'd spent teaching high school English. The poem had started running through my head at a particularly cluttered house that first summer I spent cleaning, when I thought of it as a way to earn a little money between school years. Since then, it had become a mantra for me, something to help me focus before I went into a house I knew was bad or one that might be bad. Even if it was filthy, it would be okay, because chaos gave me a chance to create order.

Of course, I still preferred the customers who cleaned before I got there.

I pulled down my visor and checked myself in the mirror. It was 4:00, and I'd already done two houses that day. My bun was messy, and my face had a sheen of sweat. Hopefully people understood cleaning houses was hard work, but I tried to make a good impression on first-time customers. I made sure to wear one of the Fresh Start t-shirts without bleach stains on days I'd see new customers. I'd had them printed in about ten different colors so I wouldn't get bored, and I tried to wear one of the purple ones on new customer days. Brenna had told me purple was my best color. But then, Brenna had a thing for purple.

I unclipped my bun, slicked the flyaways back into the knot, and reclipped it. I found powder and lipstick in my purse and added a little. I was no Brenna Montgomery--never would be--but I was presentable. I grabbed my clipboard, made sure I had a new customer sheet, and went to the door. It opened before I had a chance to ring the bell. Maybe she'd been watching me sit in my car futzing around.

Ms. Gould? I'm Lisi Reynolds, from Fresh Start Cleaning Service.

Natasha Gould was tiny--eye level with my chin--with pale skin, worried eyes and a shock of thick black hair. It looked like her hair weighed more than the rest of her. She might have been fifty, but it was hard to tell. She exuded sadness in a way that made me think she might look older than she really was. It was a warm day, but Natasha wore long sleeves plus a knitted shawl around her shoulders. A silver Star of David hung from a chain around her neck.

Please, call me Natasha. That timid voice again. She sounded like she wasn't sure the request was acceptable.

Okay. I'm Lisi.

I smiled at her. She smiled back, but it didn't look genuine. It didn't lift that feeling of sadness she wore. I remembered her answer last night when I'd asked if she thought her house was haunted--Either it is or I am. It seemed even clearer now that she herself was haunted. Her eyes made me think of boarded windows.

Come in, Natasha said. She stepped back from the door, and I entered the foyer. Can I get you something to drink?

No, thank you. I looked around, doing early-stage inspection. I couldn't see anything immediately out of order--no maggot-topped newspaper piles or mounds of clutter. There was a formal dining area to my right and a living area to the left. It had the look of a room that didn't get used much. A collection of family photos in silver frames lined the fireplace mantle.

I wished the fireplace were lit. The house was frigid. Even though it had been warm and sunny outside, it seemed like the sun stopped at the windows and didn't penetrate in here. I rubbed at my exposed arms awkwardly, trying not to drop my clipboard.

Guess I see now why you're wearing that shawl.

Natasha flashed her joyless smile again. It's always cold in here. I don't know why. Her hand stole upward and rubbed the Star of David that hung from her neck. It had the air of a reflexive action--I didn't think she realized she'd done it. Shall I show you around?

The house was dirty, but it wasn't anything like I'd feared. Just a typical first-time clean. I didn't know what Natasha had been hearing in the house, because I didn't see any evidence of mice. No evidence of ghosts, either, unless you counted how cold it was. Brenna might have taken that as proof, but I thought it was proof of poor building materials.

That was the tour of the ground floor. Upstairs, thinks got hinky.

I first felt it as I followed Natasha up the stairs--a strong sense of being someplace I wasn't wanted. I stopped on the fifth riser and hugged myself. It felt like an invisible wall stopped me.

Natasha turned around. Are you all right?

Yes. Except I didn't feel capable of taking another step. Are you sure you want me to clean upstairs?

She frowned. Don't you normally clean the whole house?

Yes. I mean, sometimes. I have some customers who only... I trailed off as I realized I had no idea what I was talking about. Natasha didn't seem to notice I'd stopped talking mid-sentence. She wasn't even looking at me but had shifted her gaze to a picture on the wall beside me. I turned to look at it as well. It showed Natasha with a man and teenage girl in the woods, their arms slung around each other. One of the man's arms was extended, apparently holding the camera up to take the picture. It had that strange, disorienting angle you got taking a snapshot that way, but it was a nice picture. All three people looked happy.

My husband and daughter, Natasha said. She hesitated, then added, They're no longer with me.

I looked from the picture back to Natasha. Her eyes were still boarded windows. If her family was dead, that explained her hauntedness. But she hadn't said that--maybe there'd been a divorce, and her ex took the girl. I'm sorry, I said.

It was September.

I waited, but that was all she had to say on the subject. I shivered again. It seemed even colder here than it had downstairs. Looking up at Natasha two steps above me, I thought suddenly that the chill came not from the house, but from Natasha herself. She pushed it into the air like a reverse heater. It felt colder the more agitated she was.

I get the feeling you don't want me upstairs.

Her eyes flicked from the picture to my face. Surprise had replaced their dull blankness. Why would you say that?

Maybe because I didn't want to go upstairs. That invisible wall I felt might have been Natasha, or it might have been my own intuition sending out a warning--danger ahead. My skin felt tingly. I wished she would tell me she'd