Moonlight Meetings - Three Erotic Supernatural Stories (The three first stories from Suzy's Adventures) (4 page)

“Shit!”
she shouted and leaped out of the bed, ignoring the chorus of complaints from her sore body parts. She dashed into the bathroom, turned the taps and stood jumping from foot to foot under a blitz of icy water. How could anything be so cold when the whole city was sizzling under the sun? Back in the bedroom she threw on the clothes closest to her, cursing her love for leather pants, then raked her belongings off the bed down into her backpack. Most of her packing was lying strewn all over the room, so she crawled around frantically is search of the most essential stuff. She glanced at the clock. Five to twelve. If she could flag down a cab right outside the hostel, she should make it.

Typically, she couldn’t find the Emily doll, her most prized possession. Under the bed? No, but there at least she found her book. In the bathroom? Nope, but she grabbed the range of soap tubes and tossed them into her bag too. This was a hotel, after all. Under the pillows? She threw them aside but found nothing. The dull ticking of the clock seemed much quicker than last night. Almost noon. Checkout time.
Damn.
She had to leave it behind. Maybe she could have them send it to her mom, not really wanting to know what that would cost her.
If
they found it.

She sighed, slung her bag over her shoulder, stepped into her boots and made for the door, pausing only to cast a longing look at the room, the bed, the paintings and the huge windows. She knew she’d miss it, and who knew when she’d sleep in an ex-cultist mansion again? Then she unlocked the door, pulled it open, stepped out into the dark corridor, and stopped. She stood frozen in her step while her memory rewinded and replayed what she’d just seen. No. She was stressing out.

But her memory, annoyed at being ignored, did another replay that forced her to step back into the room. She dropped her packing and walked up to one of the smaller paintings in the room, an ochre-toned portrait of Monroy next to the bathroom door. He was sitting on a chair facing the artist – or maybe himself – with the ever-present glass of wine in one hand and the other hand behind his back, as if he was hiding something.

And that was what had caught her eye: he
was
hiding something. Even worse, she had admired that very painting last evening, and she could have sworn he had his other hand in his lap when she’d last looked at it. Now there was something dark and round sticking out behind his back, just where his hand would be. She leaned closer and felt every hair on her body stand up.

Behind his back he held a toy, a small doll with a pale face framed by jet black hair. At a glance, it could have passed for an antique doll, or even part of his clothes, but the shape was far too familiar to Suzy. She could even see she black blotch on the doll’s cheek where Suzy once had spilled nail varnish.

Suzy swallowed and touched the painting. It was dry. She blinked slowly while she did a double take, knowing that she’d have a lot more to deal with for some time than just long fights and airplane food. Then her aching legs made her recall the past night, and she shivered with pleasure. Without knowing why, a wide grin spread over her lips as she watched Monroy’s face.

“You bastard,” she said softly. “I’m coming back for it, believe me.”

Then she grabbed her bag and left the room, no longer terrified by the idea of missing the flight. There were other things to consider.

The lady at the desk offered to call an airport shuttle that’d make sure she got there in time. Suzy absentmindedly accepted.

“I hope I didn’t leave you with troubled dreams last night?” she asked Suzy, who lounged in a sofa while smiling at nothing.

“What?” Suzy said. “No, no. No trouble at all.”

The lady smiled and turned back to her computer. “That’s good to hear, I was afraid I had upset you. Come to think of it, many guests in that room tend to oversleep. It must be the noisy traffic outside. That’s a nasty cough, dear. Would you like a glass of water?” 

“No, I’m alright,” Suzy said and rubbed her face with her hands. “Yeah, the traffic is a kind of loud, but that’s alright.”

“So you enjoyed your stay then?” the lady asked.

“Oh yes,” she said and grinned. “A lot.”

She sighed and stared at a huge painting above the exit. The motif showed a black-clad Monroy leaned against a railing, looking down on her with a knowing smile on his pursed lips.

Am I crazy? Was it a dream? Can any dream be that real? And where’s my doll?
A long string of burning questions was lined up in her mind. A lingering heat filled her body. There was only one way to find the answers.

“In fact,” Suzy said and turned to the lady, “can I make a booking for three weeks from now? The same room, please.”

*

Strangers in the Woods

Suzy dropped another armful of firewood in front of the fireplace, brushed wooden splinters off her arms and flopped down on a couch. There she stayed, staring at the ceiling. Sweat glued sawing dust to her skin and plastered her hair to her head. Even though twilight was near, the air still quivered with heat. This was not a national park; this was an open-air baking oven in disguise. She punched at the remote control to the ceiling fan, even though she knew it already ran on full ‘speed’, which meant a languid spin that barely stirred the air.

In theory,
a countryside cabin was a great location for a three-day, all-girl pig out. Getting a flight to Georgia and then hiking out to quiet, almost-a-town Newrigde was not the cheapest option, but as the house was the rental holiday hideaway of Catherine’s grandparents, they had it for free, and better yet, no one would drift off to any local club. There was not even a roadhouse within three miles from the house, and the last bus to Newrigde left at dinnertime. Not that Suzy thought sleepy Newrigde would offer any place that would be worth the trip, and with her spiky hair and tattoos coiling down her arms, she would not have been surprised if the residents would get the pitchforks out and chase her away. Alternative City, it certainly was not. But that was all right. This would be great. Five old friends, three days, tons of unhealthy food and a dangerous amount of alcohol.

That was, of course, if she could stay awake to enjoy any of the wine she had dragged up here from town. How a few bottles and some food could be so heavy was beyond her. Then, when she finally got here, it was only to find that the previous guests had skipped cleaning out the fireplace and misplaced the sharpening stone for the impossibly dull axe. Thank you
so
much. Suzy felt as if she had chopped up a tree with a shovel. If they did this again, she would book a plane weeks – no, months – ahead, so she did not have to come ten hours before everyone else and do all the preparations. Not that she
had
to prepare anything, but there was nothing else to do. No company, no mobile phone coverage, no Internet. Just Suzy, a spacey cabin on the threshold of a huge forest, and things that needed doing.

But now she was done, and damn if she would not kick back for an hour. After a quick shower, she wrapped herself in a towel, padded barefoot out onto the large veranda and leaned back in a cane chair, glass of wine in her right hand and her Ipod in her left. Her eyes swept over the vista. “Look at this,” she murmured to herself.

The cabin was a modern five-room affair with massive windows and a veranda the size of a normal flat. Built on the top of a small hill, it overlooked the outer part of the Chattanooga Nature Reserve, a vast, billowing carpet of deep green that stretched into the horizon. A valley started right below the veranda, forming a pine tree-clad gorge that ran for miles. There was even a small birdwatcher’s telescope rigged on a tripod. Suzy had used it to zoom in on trees, flowers, rocks, birds and an unsuspecting fox. She could not see another house.

The only buildings in the area she had seen from the bus were a few luxurious modern manors and the gates of Eagle Villa, a mansion-turned-kitch-horror summer retreat for people with more money than taste. In any case, both mansion and villas were half an hour’s walk away or more. No risk of loud music being an issue. She turned her head and eyed the massive sound system in a corner of the living room. Suzy grinned. The poor thing was accustomed to soft country and western, but Suzy had treated it to three hours worth of raw tunes straight downloaded over the week from a plethora of obscure websites, and none of the tracks deserved to be played on any volume less than screaming loud.

The sun began to sink behind the tree line, but the air was still unbelievably hot. Suzy checked the time on her Ipod. Where
were
they?

On cue, the telephone rang. Suzy started, nearly dropping her wine glass. Cursing, she put the glass on the wooden floor, held the towel tight with one hand and dashed through the house.

She picked up the receiver. “Um,” she said.
Shit!
What was Catherine’s grandparents’ name again? Something Russian. Asimov? No, that was an author guy. Aramov? Moscow?

“Suzy, is that you?” the voice in the phone asked.

Thank God!
“Yeah, it’s me. Catherine? Where are you guys? I’m spending way too much time alone with all this food.”

“We missed our flight.”

“
What?
”

“It’s Emma’s fault. She couldn’t find the right shoes. You know what a snob she is.” Suzy heard wild protests in the background, but Catherine went on untroubled.

“Are you serious?” Suzy said. “This isn’t a fashion show. Get here now or I’ll eat all the chocolate myself.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll be there soon. They got us on the next flight, but we won’t make it there until midnight.”

“Midnight?” Suzy ran her hand down her face. Four more hours of mad boredom. And, of course, food, wine, chocolate, and an oversized hi-fi monster.

“I’ll live,” Suzy sighed. “Wait. How will you get here? The last bus will have left Newrigde by then.”

“My grandparents’ got a friend in Newrigde. I talked to her, and she’ll drive us up to the cabin.”

 “And I had to carry a dozen bags on the bus,” Suzy growled. “Don’t blame me if there’s no food left for you when you get here.”

“We’re really sorry, Suzy. If you want, get a fire going. There should be plenty of firewood next to the hearth. Why are you moaning? Are you all right?”

“Never better,” Suzy said. “Just hurry up and get here. I have to go now; I have a date with my Ipod.”

“See you soon. Wait up for us. The night’s young.” The call ended.

Suzy yawned so wide her jaw creaked.
Sure it is, for you lot.
Suzy had risen at 5 am to catch her flight and now it was dark again. She checked that the door was locked, went back to the veranda, got her wine glass and her Ipod, and then walked over to the sound system. She might as well turn it on again to help her stay awake. Just as she was about to press play, she heard voices outside. Suzy frowned and listened. A man. No, two men. A snigger. A cough. A footstep on the stairs.

A decade of cabin fever-themed horror movies came rushing back to her. In her mind, a host of Jasons, Freddies and Meyers lined up outside, arguing over who got to murder her first. Sure, the door was sturdy and the windows had security screens, but that had never stopped a lunatic serial killer, right?

There was a knock on her door. This time Suzy did drop her glass and a burgundy stain spread on a beige carpet. “You’ve got to be kidding,” Suzy said. Her voice shook.

She steeled herself.
Get a grip, girl!
Whoever was outside had probably taken a wrong turn or hopped off the bus at the wrong stop. Or they could be some of Catherine’s grandparent’s friends. Probably. Most likely. Maybe. And maybe not. But the one thing she could not do was ignore the knocking.

She took a poker from beside the fireplace and walked over to the door. There was definitely someone whispering on the other side. A shoe scraped on the stairs. There was no peeping hole, so Suzy went to a window to the left of the door. The porch light was not on, but the light from the windows was enough to see. When she leaned close to the windowpane, she saw two men standing outside the door, whispering to each other. Young, probably not even twenty. Neat haircuts, clean sneakers, awful shirts. One of them had a can of rum and coke.

Cult members? A psychotic duo? Escaped mental patients? Lost hikers? A combination of all the above? Whoever they were, Suzy did not want them hanging around on her porch. Thankfully, Catherine’s sensible or paranoid relatives had installed floodlights around the house. Suzy flicked the switch, and the men outside shrieked in surprise.

Suzy opened the window a fraction. “Can I help you?” She watched the men stumble around a dozen metres away, arms over their eyes. If they came closer, Suzy would slam the window shut.

“I’m blind,” one of them complained. “I can’t see anything.”

 “Sorry about that,” Suzy said, not really meaning it. “Who are you? And what are you doing here? This is private property.”