The Freebie (Fiction) – Part IV

I swear I am not dragging this out on purpose, to get out of having to write new blog posts…  🙂  Callie just keeps wanting me to tell you more and more, and what can I do but acquiesce?  I promise there will only be one more day after this…  For the beginning, start here.  Oh, and if you have been reading all along and catch any weird anomalies, I made some minor revisions to fix an inconsistency/two along the way.  I didn’t want to repost everything though, so just proceeded from here with the latest version text.  If you are interested in the longer full, final version though, let me know and I can do a link-to page.  🙂

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The Freebie (continued)

As Callie unwrapped the book, a note fell out.  The note was written on heavy, fine paper, the kind that came from a stationery store, the kind that gentlemen callers once used to leave calling cards for their lady friends; and it was written in real ink, ink from a bottle, ink that belonged in expensive fountain pens with gold or silver nibs and heavy metallic barrels.  So far, Nick St. James was delivering on all of the promise of his emails – he was delivering magic and promise and a world completely unlike the one Callie had been born into.

The copperplate handwriting that had managed to transform her name and address into something special appeared to float just over the notepaper as though the ink were intimidated by the words it was being asked to convey.  “My dearest Callie,” it read, “I cannot thank you enough for granting me and my story this wonderful opportunity to enter into your life, in however small a way.  I do hope you enjoy my little tale.  I did warn you that my writing tends to be a little dark.  I hope I don’t frighten you too much too soon, and that you will continue reading even if you reach a point that seems too bleak or scary to go on.  That is why I like my readers to check in, you see – I need to make sure you are still with me, that I haven’t lost you in the horror of the story…  As I believe I mentioned, my stories are not for everyone; it takes a discerning reader to truly enter into the worlds I create, to see past the words and the images and actually begin to live the story.  I believe that you are such a reader my dear, and I am eagerly anticipating your reactions!”

With that the note ended, the scrawl at the bottom of the beautiful paper mimicking that of the earlier emails with one notable exception – a small blotch of ink, marring the otherwise impeccable presentation of the note.  It caught Callie’s eye.  At first she assumed it was the shock of seeing a blemish on the face of such an otherwise perfect letter; as she looked closer though, she thought it might be because she thought she saw something in the blotch.  Shaking her head, she looked again and realized that the blotch wasn’t really all that blotchy – if she squinted a bit, it actually looked rather like an eye.  An eye with lashes and a curiously intense look – well, curiously intense for a bit of spilled ink, which is of course what it must be.  At least, that’s what she told herself.  And then told herself again.  Because there was no way she saw what she just thought she saw – no way that the blotchy eye could have actually winked at her.

Callie laughed to herself; it was late, she was anticipating a scary story, and she had been working a series of double-shifts.  Her eyes were obviously playing tricks on her.  She knew she should take that as a sign that it was time to go to bed, new book notwithstanding, and save the reading for tomorrow – because she knew once she started reading, she was unlikely to be willing or able to stop until her alarm went off the next morning.  But Callie was caught up in the excitement of it all, and so she did what so many people do – she ignored the voice in her head telling her she needed sleep, that the book would still be there in the morning, that she had to work a double again and it would not do to show up exhausted.  And so she used her cell phone to email Nick St. James that she had received the book and then she started to read.

Callie was not pleased that he wanted her to check in so often during the course of her reading.  She did not have a computer or internet connection at home; she had to use the pay-as-you-go data feature on her cell phone to send emails, and they were an expense she could ill afford.  She had refused to use the data feature to do anything up to this point; she had intentionally not activated it, in fact, to avoid the temptation to check her messages during the website set-up process.  But when she saw the request that she check-in throughout the course of her reading, Callie decided that she had no choice.  It was the one thing Nick St. James had asked for in return for the book, and she supposed she could manage.  Each message would be very short and so shouldn’t be that expensive, after all.

Nick St. James’s story was a thriller from the get-go.  According to the book jacket, at its heart it was a story about a journalist who wants desperately to be famous – so desperately that he starts making horrible things happen so that he has something to write about.  Callie liked the premise – although she had a nagging sense that she had seen or heard something similar once before, maybe by Stephen King or someone like that? – but what really drew her in was the writing.  This was not the kind of writing Callie thought of as typical horror fare – not at all.  It was literary and urbane and just a touch melodramatic, much as the man’s notes to her had been so far; it was engaging and suspenseful, with sudden cold-water shocking moments of violence, both physical and psychological.  But it was also darkly funny with surprising twists and turns.  It was a switchback mountain road of a story, and Callie found herself gasping out loud, “oh no, he did NOT just say/do/show THAT?!” with surprising regularity.

Callie finished the first section in what seemed no time at all, and dutifully dashed off an email to Nick St. James from her cell phone, as he had requested.  It seemed like she had barely hit the “send” button and settled back in to read when her phone squawked at her.  It was a sound Callie had never heard before, and at first she had no idea what it meant.  Then she realized – Nick St. James had responded to her email, almost as soon as she had sent it: “My dear girl, I am so pleased that you are progressing through my story so quickly.  I knew you were the perfect reader for this story – that the two of you were simply made for one another.  It’s as though I wrote the book with you in mind.  I do look forward to hearing about your continued progress.  All my very best, NSJ.”

Callie couldn’t believe that the man had replied so quickly – how could anyone, even a writer, type so fast, she wondered.  Or in so many words.  Callie was beginning to regret the decision to enable the data feature on her phone.  If Nick St. James was going to respond to each and every message (regardless of the time, apparently authors never sleep!), this had the potential to end up costing her more than the price of one book, even in hardcover.  Oh well, she thought, in for a penny, in for a pound as momma used to say.  And with that she smiled ruefully and reopened the book.

During the second section, Callie found herself reading selected bits of dialogue and description aloud.  This had long been a hallmark for her of writing she particularly enjoyed.  Every now and again during the course of a book she would stumble upon words that simply begged to be spoken, to be heard.  If she did not give in to the begging the story would fall oddly flat.  The whole thing would not read properly if those select bits were not verbalized – they were the black and white version of the author poking her brain for emphasis, a sort of express command that valuable wisdom or information were being imparted and that for god’s sake she should pay attention already!

As Callie read, the night passed her by.  She read for nearly six hours, stopping to dash off a brief email to Nick St. James as she concluded the second section, somewhere just south of four a.m.  Again, he responded almost immediately.  “Darling Callie, your brevity does my writer’s heart an injustice.  If you would humor an old man, could you kindly include some sense of how you are perceiving the story in your next missive?  It would do my lonely ego some good to hear whether you are enjoying my humble work, whether it is truly pulling you in…”  At this point, Callie was only slightly less than half-way through the surprisingly weighty book.  She sighed to herself and made a mental note to send more detailed messages the next time ‘round – data costs be damned, apparently – when her alarm went off, signaling that she had just enough time to shower and change before going back to work her next double shift.  Callie groaned to herself.  How on earth was she supposed to stop now, just when things were starting to get good – just when a new character, a young spunky girl that reminded Callie more than a little of herself, had been introduced?

The girl, Mandy Carter, had only been around for a few dozen pages, but there was just something about the way she was being described that made Callie think she was going to be critical to the remainder of the story.  “Just five more minutes,” Callie thought, “I’ll just read for five more minutes.  I’ll still have time to clean up and get to the store.  I just have to know a little bit more…”  Callie kept reading.  Five minutes turned into ten, and ten into fifteen.  The story was building, ever so slowly, but building nonetheless.  And then suddenly, Mandy’s alarm went off in a blaring, six-alarm fire kind of way – and just at that moment, Callie’s eyes were pulled to her own clock.  “Oh no!” she exclaimed, as she realized she had just enough time to bolt out the door and to the store before her shift began.  “So much for a shower,” she thought ruefully, “and thank god for Mandy’s alarm!”

“Thank God indeed,” Callie thought to herself, a small sad smile winking across her face, a smile so brief that anyone watching might have missed it even if she had not been hiding in the darkness. A smile accompanied by a single tear sliding down her cheek to join the frantic sweat soaking into the collar of her tee shirt. “I’ll thank Him again if he’ll get me the hell out of this mess…”

With that, Callie ran off to work.  Never had a double shift been so painful.  Each minute shuffled by like churlish high-schoolers heading off to detention – sullenly, with feet dragging and resentment in every eye.  Of course, given her utter lack of interest, every customer she encountered wanted something from her – a recommendation, assistance, directions – and every co-worker too.  By the end of the first of her two shifts, the normally calm, cool, and collected Callie was ready to blow.  All she could think about was Mandy, was the book.  She had to know what happened next, just had to!  “If one more person asks for one more thing…” she thought with a surly snarl.

Callie’s colleagues and her small crew of regular customers had never seen her like this – Callie, in fact, had never seen Callie like this.  Never before had she been anything less than helpful or cheerful.  She was like a different person altogether – a curt, snappish, bear of a person.  A bear that, by rights, should have long gone into hibernation before now, if her mood was any indication.  She was a woman obsessed, and like all addicts, would not be content until she got her next fix – and that wouldn’t happen until after the store closed, when she was back at home reading.

Finally, after what seemed like weeks but was really only hours, the store closed.  Callie raced through her closing routine – reshelving, tidying, counting, restocking – and out the door into the night.  She race-walked home and nearly ripped the doorknob off trying to unlock the door.  Her heart was pounding and her temples were throbbing.  She was a cliché, a woman possessed.  She simply had to continue reading.  In all of her years as a rabid reader, Callie had never felt such a passion, such a need for a book.  It was strange and bizarre, this sudden intense response, and even in the midst of her book-madness Callie felt a twinge of concern about it.  She wasn’t much for the idea of little voices inside of one’s head, had never found much use for inner monologues, but she suddenly was experiencing one (albeit briefly) nonetheless.

“Ridiculous stupid customers, honestly, doesn’t anyone have any sense?  Why can’t they figure anything out for themselves; stupid co-workers are just as bad.  Honestly, am I the only person with an ounce of intelligence?  Why on earth am I getting so upset, this isn’t like me at all, what is going on here?  Sure the book is good but I’ve read good books before, why is this one different?  What is it about this Nick St. James that his story has me all a-tangle?  This is weird, is this weird?  It seems weird.  Maybe I should just leave it for a day or two, let it get out of my system.  Or maybe that’ll make it worse, maybe I should just read as fast as I can and get it over with.  Ugh, what should I do?”

Callie knew she didn’t live the kind of life that required a lot of heavy decision-weighing.  She was a nice girl who lived a nice life.  She was not accustomed to internal conflict, to this kind of raw nervous energy or the thrill of obsession.  Sure she loved to read, and had always read as much as she could, but never to the detriment of other aspects of her life.  She had never let anything get in the way of her responsibilities before.  Her worldview was predicated on the concepts of reliability and security – concepts her momma had driven into her from an early age – and the fact that this book and this author had managed to get under her skin after so brief a period of time did provide cause for pause.  But in the end, the tiny voice inside her head was too tiny to outweigh the siren-song of the book.  Unaccustomed to resisting temptation, Callie found herself without any of the necessary tools to do so.  And so the tiny voice was silenced with a rather harsh “SHUSH!” and Callie picked up the book.

“Nice girl,” thought Callie.  “Well, we all know where they tend to finish…”  Shivering, she tried to make herself even smaller and less noticeable, as her eyes panned the living room for the source of the noise, the ridiculous and unidentifiable noise that was driving her mad with fear.

And so Callie read on.

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(To be continued, yet again again)