5. without a trace

5

without a trace

Lucynda

October 11th

“What do you mean there’s nothing you can do?”

Spending my Friday morning arguing with a police officer about what qualifies as a stalker was not how I wanted to spend my time.

Last night, after my run in with the Poe connoisseur, I decided I was too exhausted to do anything but shower and sleep. Instead, I woke up extra early this morning to walk to the police station to explain to them for nearly twenty minutes what has been going on—the shadow person watching me, the note, the roses—only to be told that there is nothing they can actually do about any of it.

“Ma’am, I’ve explained this to you. You have no evidence other than this one note and a dying rose. If you can provide me with an image or a video of the person you claim to have seen, we might take a look at it, but other than that, it just appears that maybe you have a secret admirer, as the note claims. And that is not against the law.” The officer clasps her hands together and pulls her lips tight at me, as if I’m bothering her by being here. And I probably am.

Of course, I would be the new girl who just moved in and starts causing issues because someone gave me a fucking flower. I’m already bothering this poor department with my issues which causes me to feel like a disappointment.

Wonderful.

I stand here, annoyed with the answer I’ve been given but also annoyed with myself for overthinking the situation. I’m being totally irrational and probably a little immature. But this can’t be the resolution I’m forced to live with. Just suck it up and be grateful I have someone who likes me, basically.

Though I don’t believe that this is someone who actually admires me as something foreboding emanates from the note. I think one of my step-sisters found where I live and decided to torture me from afar. That or I have an actual stalker who wants to kidnap me. That’s not, in the slightest, something to be grateful about. The mentally abusive agoraphobia starts to swarm my nerves, causing me to start breathing a little faster.

“You can still submit a police report but I’m telling-”

“Yes, I want this reported.” I don’t even care what else she has to say. I want this on record so that if something does happen, they can see the paper trail and know that I wasn’t just some little girl who overreacted. That and I need to sit down before I pass out from hyperventilation.

“Right this way then.” I follow her back toward an interview room where she gives me a piece of paper and a pen. I see the water dispenser in the back of the room, so I make my way there before sitting down to fill out the report.

I grab one of the little disposable cups and fill it with water. It’s not the coldest but I tilt the cup back, letting the refreshing liquid sit on my tongue for a few seconds before slowly gulping it down. It soothes me almost immediately. I fill it up one more time and take it with me to my seat.

The officer stands nearby while I write down everything I need to say. From the shadow man I saw a few weeks ago, to the time he stood out my window. The fact that he knows my name, which I realized I had forgotten when I first explained this to her, and the six, or is it seven, roses.

After getting it all out and rereading over my statement, I realize it really does seem kind of silly. But I know this world; it has an agenda and it’s out to ruin me. Everyone in it. Or at least that's what my mind is trained to believe these days.

Ugh, I’m starting to sound crazy.

“You’ll need to leave the note as well, the rose you can toss in the trash,” the officer says to me as I stand to leave.

“The note?” I find myself gripping it tightly in my fist, not really sure if I’m ready to let it go. But why? I don’t know. I just don’t feel like I want to give something so personal to a complete stranger.

She holds her hand out and waits for me to hand it over, so I do, reluctantly, but it’s the right thing.

I make an attempt to leave the room, but she stops me, telling me that we’ll need to go back to the front desk so she can file my report with a copy of my ID. As we make the trip back to the front, a thought crosses my mind.

“Do you know who lives in Hollows Trace?” I ask, curious after seeing the mansion again on my way down. I had to force myself not to stop, knowing that I am in a bit of a time crunch here.

“ In Hollow’s Trace? Well, no one lives there.” She looks over her shoulder at me with a confusing look.

I hate the way her keys jingle at her side. The sound puts me on edge with every step back down the hall. I don’t even know why but I have to bite the inside of my lip to stop myself from yelling at her to control her damn keyring, which would really cause her to look at me like I’m a weirdo.

We get back to the front desk so I shuffle through my bag to hand her my ID.

“What do you mean no one lives there? Is it for sale then?” Not that it really matters, but I’m certain someone lives there. I swear I saw lights on in the gargantuan residence just the other night, though I could be wrong.

“What are you talking about?” The officer finally looks up at me and I can tell she is wondering just how delusional I really am. But honestly, it confuses me.

“The mansion,” I say.

“Miss, no one lives in or on Hollows Trace. There’s no mansion or, in fact, any housing on that land at all. It’s a protected piece of land and no one is allowed to even step foot on it.” She angles her head back down after shooting me a look of judgement which makes me feel really fucking crazy by now.

I know there’s a house there, a whole ass castle actually and . . . I can’t be imagining that.

“What do you mean by protected? Why?” I decide to ask instead of giving her more reasons to think I’m in a constant state of delulu with my so-called fake stalker and my questions about a place that apparently doesn’t exist.

“Well…" She chews on her thoughts before answering but as she stares at the computer screen, seemingly trying to come up with an answer, the only thing that I’m met with is unsurety. "I honestly don’t know. I mean, it’s been a part of this town’s history for as long as anyone can remember. But I will say, the last person who trespassed that part of the land went missing and no one has seen them since. It was about ten years ago or something like that.” The officer goes back to typing, my mind wondering about all sorts of different things. I always knew this town held a secret kind of darkness, but I wasn’t sure to what extent and even now, it just gets stranger and stranger by the day.

"What was their name?" I ask, curiosity licking my mind. I can tell she gets irritated with answering my questions but I don’t think she has anything better to do.

She looks up at me then back down to her desk as I lean against the edge and wait for her answer.

"Ameliana or something like that," she answers me. But I don't know why I bothered asking. It's not like I know anyone in this town. “Why don't you check out that little bookstore downtown, Blythewood. I’m sure they’ve got town history books you can browse.”

I smirk to myself.

Speaking of, I check the time on my phone and see that I’ve got an hour before I have to open the store.

“Lucynda Draven Claire.” I hear the officer whisper as she reads off my ID and types something into her computer.

“That’s my name,” I respond sarcastically, tapping the top of her desk.

It's not that I don’t like my name, my last name I for sure could live without. But hearing someone say it out loud gives me slight unease, because little by little these people will get to know the real me. That thought makes me think back to last night and the mystery man who invaded my space.

He called the color of my hair a contradiction in comparison to what he thinks he can sense I carry within. Insert eye roll emoji here. But it’s funny really, because my name is also just as much a facade as any.

Lucynda carries the meaning of light . Draven, my middle name, though an odd one, to me it’s more fitting, means child of shadows . Okay, it actually means child of beautiful shadows but really, there’s nothing beautiful about the shadows that I was born with. Did my mother know what she was naming me when she chose it? Did she purposefully intend to make a mockery out of who I am by giving me some cryptic name?

My thoughts are interrupted as the officer hands me back my ID and tells me that nothing more is needed. So, I stuff my ID back into my bag and turn on my heel to exit, not loving the way she looks at me in annoyance as if she wants to tell me that I’ve wasted my time to begin with.

“Have a great day!” I say way too cheerfully and extremely awkward as I wave my hand at her and head for the door.

I have just a few minutes before I need to open the bookstore, so I decide to walk over to Beans and Blooms, the half flower shop, half coffee shop directly across the street from…

“There’s a line?” I whisper to myself as I look across the street to see a line form of at least ten people, waiting outside of my bookstore.

I’ve never had a line before, let alone at opening. The store usually doesn't get more than ten people in a day . I’m not dying for the business, but this looks like a good change in pace which I could definitely use as a distraction right now.

“Can I help you?” The young lady in front of me looks to be high school-aged.

“Can I get a medium brown sugar latte please? Hot.” I give her my order and debit card to pay for the drink.

I move my eyes back out the window to see people patiently waiting for me to open the doors. Excitement bubbles inside me, wondering what kind of day today might be but then I feel anxious at the thought that maybe something bad is going on in order to cause the line at my store.

I turn my attention away not wanting to be pessimistic about anything else and wander over toward the Blooms side of the shop. Florals rest in buckets of water and some are even displayed in bouquets beautifully placed on glass tables. Plants also hang from the ceiling and DIY flowerpots rest against the windowsill.

I approach the bouquets that are set on the round tables to my left and see the most beautiful bouquet of flowers. I know nothing about plants or florals so I can’t for the life of me name them, but they aren’t your ordinary bright assortment. They’re rather moody, like the color scheme of this town. Though still blooming beautifully, the dark maroons and velvet burgundy flowers mix eloquently with the burnt orange daisies. And the dusty pink ones accent the dark green leaves like I’ve never seen before.

Just then, as I’m examining the florals in front of me, something darker catches my eye. I turn my head to see a wall full of singular black roses placed beautifully in a row on a wood trellis up against the wall.

The sudden burst of magic I was feeling takes a dive into my stomach and sours. But not without creating a buzz of adrenaline first. I approach the wall and take a black petal between my thumb and index finger, smoothing the texture between my fingers. It’s soft. So fucking soft. Almost as if it were made of velvet snow, tainted with the color of deadly secrets.

I hear movement behind me, and it strikes the idea that maybe I can find out who had purchased black roses lately. Maybe I can narrow down who my shadowed admirer is.

“Excuse me?” I walk toward the woman who is watering one of the plants nearby. “Can you by chance tell me if anyone has recently purchased any of these black roses in the last few weeks?”

The woman looks at me and gives me a sweet smile before agreeing and walking around to her computer.

She starts clicking away at her keyboard, her nod and smile give me hope that she found something useful. I hear my name being called from the other side of the shop where I see the barista place my coffee down. The scent of brown sugar and espresso mixes with that of the flowers and it creates a scent that warms my soul. Two things you wouldn't imagine actually smell divine together but with just the right amount of each component, it's the perfect scent for a rainy Friday like today.

I look back over to the worker helping me and see her pulling her lip between her teeth in disappointment.

“Sorry, miss. I actually can’t tell you who bought the black roses.” She shifts behind the desk and walks away.

“Wait. You can’t or you won’t?" I press, gracefully chasing after her, having been sure that she was about to tell me a list of names or something.

“Well…” She stops her footsteps back to her task before, lifts her head to the ceiling in an attempt to think over an answer but then, just like the police officer, comes up short. “Both?” She seems confused by her own answer which only frustrates me more.

I follow her around toward a basket of flowers, hearing my name get called again for the coffee on the bar. I look up to see that the people in my line at the bookshop are getting impatient and I know that now I’m late opening the store.

“What does that mean?” I ask the woman again. “You were just about to tell me and then you stopped.”

“That’s because I am not allowed to tell you,” she explains without looking at me.

“Why not? Wouldn’t you have just said that to me instead of pretending like you were going to look for an answer?” I am getting more and more tetchy with her, following her around as she moves about.

“Lucynda, your coffee!” I hear my name getting hollered again and I get annoyed with that too. I’m the only customer in here right now and surely, she sees me across the room.

“Because…” She finally stands up straight to look at me. “I…” She looks down at our feet then back up. “Because I-” She’s trying to finish her sentence, but she keeps cutting herself off.

“Because why?” I press again, wanting to get anything I can out of her.

“I actually don’t know why I can’t tell you. All I know is that I can’t. Better go get that latte before it gets cold.” She nods over to the side of the shop, and I roll my eyes feeling really frustrated at the progress I’ve seemed to have not made.

Annoyed and now more curious than ever, I stomp over to snag my coffee and chug nearly half of the lukewarm liquid as I cross the street to the bookstore.

I smile at everyone as they walk in and apologize for the wait. After the last few customers wander in, I close the door and flip the sign from closed to open . I attempt to turn around to rush to open my register, but somewhere deep inside me, within the mix of utter confusion and frustration for the lack of simple answers I’ve received this morning, something foreboding washes over me in waves of chills and awareness. That's when I see it. Or rather him . The man in black standing near the flower shop again. I can’t make out his face and I don’t have time to analyze him before the bell on my desk by the register rings and I see that people are already ready to check out.

“Coming,” I holler behind me as I give the man across the street one last glance wondering who the fuck he could be and what he wants with me.