1. It took me two years to finish this story. But I couldn't let down creatures that "bump" in the night.
2. If you like The Darkly Stranger, or Marcy's Playground, or any other M. J. stories, please check out my author page for some new special information.
3. Strap in for an original, creative, mind-blowing ride. Here's everything you need: risk, lust, love, the freaky, and...well, I'll let you see for yourself.
4. Ask yourself, 'What would you be willing to do for love?' and 'Do you want to be hero?'
THIS IS AN ENTRY IN THE HALLOWEEN CONTEST, SO PLEASE MAKE SURE YOU RATE IT WITH A FULL-HOUSE OF STARS!
DARKLY STRANGER
Chapter 1
Over the years the outgoing, daring parts of me were smothered, crushed and stamped down so slowly and consistently I hardly noticed they were dying. What was left was an introverted mouse forced more and more to the fore. But during the last two months something changed, something radical. I started to have weird, vivid dreams—nightmares—in the shower.
They were eerily realistic imaginings that shouldn't bother me in the least. Except I was afraid they might be coming true.
Drafts that had never bothered me before whistled through my old turn-of-the-century farmhouse. I planned to do renovations, room by room, but most of that never happened. Only one room got the complete overhaul.
The bathroom.
Oh, I had been so gung ho when I finally got enough together to buy this place. It didn't matter that it had been a mess. There had been a small bedroom next to the old bathroom. I busted out the wall between the two rooms, merged together all that decadent space, reveling as I converted it. The end result was a spa bathroom fit for a king, queen, or an entire royal guard. Perhaps if I had been precognitive I would have seen the need for bathing quarters large enough for a small army.
I did most of the work myself. I sank a lot of money—hell, all of my available money—on converting that bathroom into something where all my troubles could be washed away. I knew the heated floors, the special wide rainforest shower nozzles, the six separate shower heads, the fancy beige tile, and the imported Italian marble were ridiculous luxuries. It didn't matter. As I got quieter and quieter and spent more and more time at home, I needed one place where I could unwind.
So the rest of the house looked its years, but I had a beautiful rejuvenation chamber I so badly needed.
My name is Donna Arelli. I look like a librarian, or a kindergarten teacher, which makes sense because I used to be both. In my twenties I occasionally went out and played up the naughty librarian stereotype; things changed a lot since I started working at home. First I bought this house out in the middle of nowhere. Then I stopped having to go into town for work. Eventually as I began ordering more and more things online, and the few friends I had got married, or promoted, or moved away, and I got tired of the bar scene...well...staying in leads to more staying in. Because it sort of happens subtly, you don't realize how big a shift has happened.
I'm not going out anywhere anymore. Now I teach eighth and ninth grade to needy, socially maladapted teenagers online.
So I really need that spa bathroom.
The day before yesterday had been a particularly tough one. Finally, I was standing under the shower, letting all that wonderful water cascade over me. I leaned my head back against the tile of the side wall and closed my eyes. Then I found myself with my arms bent in front of me, forcing my breasts up, and my wrists pushed together as if they were tied and bound.
I blinked and looked down at my flushed chest, aroused nipples, and invisibly trussed-up arms. I'd pictured a lush forest, and people staring at me, and fingers brushing my midsection. I shook my head to clear it. It was like I lost a few seconds there.
I squeezed a dollop of strawberry-scented shampoo into my hand and had it halfway up to my hair when I saw something dart by in the hall.
Something large.
!!!!!!!!!
I was not alone.
I frantically wiped water and steam off the inside of the shower's glass doors.
There was nothing there.
I must have imagined it. I MUST have imagined it.
I kept my eyes on the door as I blindly groped to turn the water off. My ragged breathing sounded loud against a new, hard silence. I snagged a towel and wrapped it around me. I clutched the towel shut right over my racing heart. The nap of the towel felt rougher, the steam more sinister, the thunder of my blood pumping so fast and hot, a deep contrast to the rapidly cooling skin not covered by the towel.
The bathroom door was only open a few inches, just how I like it to let some steam out but keep most of it in. Of course I didn't see anything. There was no way I could have seen anything.
I pushed the door open slowly. I flinched, jumping slightly as it groaned a drawn-out creak.
No one there.
I remembered a literature professor in college asking us what the scariest sound was. A scream? A scratch at the door? Breaking glass?
'No,' he said. 'It's a toilet flushing in your house, when you absolutely know you are supposed to be alone.'
I suppressed a shudder.
The dreaminess of the shower had totally left me, and my skin was icy where goosebumps sprang up. The adrenaline had shot through my system, leaving me shaky. I took a deep breath and tried to think. There had been no noise, no rustle. What had I seen? I hadn't seen anything. In fact, it was more like I'd seen nothing; it was a break in the light. But what could move with no sound?
I avoided my shower for three days. After all, if I didn't leave the house, who'd care if I got grimy? When I finally decided I needed to get clean, I skirted the shower at first, opting for the separate Jacuzzi bath. I brought a book in with me but couldn't get into the story. I added a jasmine bubble bath and stayed in until I felt terrific. But when I stood up a film of jasmine yuck was stuck to me from the chest down.
I stared at the shower.
I loved that shower.