Dirty Secrets

Part 75

Lying in bed with the laptop on her belly, the morning sunlight permeating the window blinds, Lyla scrolled through her drone footage. She'd turned her brain inside out analyzing the images of the lizard-like creature. There were no conclusions, logical or otherwise, that alleviated her fears. No point in revisiting that horror show. 

Her focus now was on locating the cemetery's surveillance camera. The arrival of Ponytail Guy in his Cadillac was no coincidence. Somewhere on that hill, a camera was hidden, she felt sure of it. She zoomed in on a questionable object and, after intense scrutiny, concluded that it was nothing more than a fallen branch poking out of the weeds. After multiple frame-by-frame inspections, her attention was drawn to a band, a metal strap of some kind, wrapped around the trunk of a thick oak tree. When she zoomed closer her suspicions were confirmed. A rectangular camouflaged hunting camera, aimed in the direction of the grave plots, had been secured to the tree.

She shifted her attention to the doorway when Ryan poked his head into the room.

"You wanna come with me? To the store?" he asked.

"What store?"

"Home Depot's having a sale." He waved a pamphlet. "I could use a new drill."

"Wheeeee! That sounds almost as fun as drinking bleach," she replied.

"Come on." He worked to sell her on the idea. "We can stop someplace for lunch after. Or maybe get some takeout?"

She scrunched up her face and shook her head.

He was trying to do the cheer-up-your-sad-daughter dad thing. Obviously. But everything about a hardware store trip felt bleh.

She whined, "I'd need to get a shower and--"

"You don't need a shower for Home Depot."

"Yeah, I do." She wasn't going to relent. "I could never live with myself if I made you miss the big drill sale."

He cracked up. "Okay. I'll see you later," he said.

She heard him trundle down the stairs. Her dad knew that she was upset about not seeing Packer and about all the drama with Darcy and the dance. Privacy was hard to come by in a small house. Ever since her stay at the hospital, her dad had been extra-protective. He was driving her crazy but she understood.

Her phone buzzed.

Darcy: How R U? Wanna hang out get some noms? 🍔

Lyla: Don't you need to get ready for the BIG dance?

Darcy: Come over and help?

Lyla prepared to thumb a snarky comment but stopped. 

Apparently, Darcy couldn't stand the suspense of watching the three iPhone text bubbles on her screen while waiting for her friend's response.

Darcy: Could really use UR help. ❤️

Lyla: I'm going for a run.

Darcy: OK 😢

Lyla hadn't really considered going for a run but now she was committed. Exercise would probably be helpful in taking her mind off of her problems. And a boost of serotonin would definitely improve her mood.

She closed her laptop then wriggled out of her comfy PJ pants. She stepped into a pair of baggy shorts then found one of her favorite t-shirts and pulled it over her head. It said: I Run Like A Girl. Try To Keep Up.

Lyla laced up her sneakers, strapped her phone into her armband, then pulled her hair into a ponytail. Before she left the room, she grabbed the Mace from her desk, gripping it in her fist. She snatched the house keys on her way out the door.

She started through her neighborhood at a moderate pace, noticing that the windows and rooftops of nearby houses were glazed with the creamy morning light. With high-energy music pumping in her ears, she skirted a young couple on the sidewalk pushing a stroller and an inattentive dog walker with an aggressive dog. Lyla diverted down an alley to avoid the Saturday morning pedestrian traffic and lunging animals.

She enjoyed the seldom-seen views of her neighbors' backyards with kids on swing sets and lights strung across pergola rafters. Withering flower and vegetable gardens signaled the approach of autumn as did swimming pools covered with tarps. A sparrow perched on a weathered wooden fence watched as she jogged past.

Not far ahead, a shadow spilled out onto the cracked pavement from behind a garage,  coalescing into the form of a waif. It wasn't Lyla's eyes, but an all-encompassing sensation that confirmed its identity as Clover.

Lyla turned abruptly, sprinting in the opposite direction. She looked back, stiffening at the fading image, her heart rate accelerating. As she approached the intersection of the alley and the sidewalk, Clover appeared, blocking her exit, her eyes as dead as stones. Frantically, Lyla hopped a fence, escaping across a well-tended backyard lawn, between the houses and out onto the street. She darted through traffic to the opposite sidewalk, the screeching of brakes slicing through the music in her ears, and continued racing, her arms pumping, her lungs burning.

Had she not been blasting her music, she would have heard the hydraulic heaving and pounding of the backhoe and the jackhammer. She didn't see the construction crews tearing up the old sidewalk until she'd rounded the bend. By then it was too late. Her only option was to backtrack but when she turned, she was confronted by the phantom.

The music in her ears stuttered, then cut out.

"Free me," Clover gasped with the last bit of air her lungs could expel. Her form and features had decayed, becoming nearly gelatinous. Her tearful face was distorted, as though it were a thin rubber mask stretching ever so slowly toward her ears. Her nose flattened, her eyes became slits. Then, as though her skull was expanding, pushing its way through the membrane of skin, her forehead split, revealing a deteriorating indication of a face. Severe decomposition made identification nearly impossible, but when he spoke she knew it was Keenan.

The choking odor of decay enveloped her so suddenly, she nearly vomited. She felt the urge to blast him with her Mace, but chemical weapons weren't designed to repel demons.

"Wear the ring." His voice seemed to be rising from a pit as the last vestiges of Clover fell away. "You're mine, Kitten. Always will be." There it was, the familiar twisted cruel smile.

"No," she shook her head. "No, I won't."

"She's next," he whispered diabolically, his withered lips exposing rotted teeth.

Lyla wrenched herself from paralysis and bolted through the work zone, the men in hardhats and orange high-viz safety vests shouting and cursing her out. She lurched down the street, stumbling at first then finding her rhythm, never breaking stride, never looking back, running until she crossed the fading line of salt drawn diagonally edge-to-edge on her driveway.