Chapter 1

Chapter One:
At eleven AM, my alarm forcefully jolted me awake. For a moment I shoved my head deeper into my pillow, but alas, I knew there wasn't much choice. In two hours I had to be to work, which left me an hour and a half to shower, style my hair, find some clothes, put on some make up, and scrounge up a little food.
As I got into the shower and let the hot water run over my skin to wake up a little, I found myself muttering a famous old war tune.
“Oh, how I hate to get in the morning... oh, how I long to remain in bed...”
Ten minutes later, the song was still in my head while I used the blow dryer on my hair.
“Someday I'm going to murder the bugler... someday they're going to find him dead. I'll amputate his reveille and step upon it heavily and spend the rest of my life in bed...”
While the lyrics were very specific to an army bugler, I had thoughts geared more toward my alarm clock. It was ugly anyway. I needed a new one. Maybe one that had kittens on it? Yes. Kittens made everything better.
Another ten minutes, and my hair was nearly dry and on its way to being styled. I worked on it with precise care. Freshly dyed black and cut in layers from the chin up, I was still in the phase of actually caring what it looked like. In another two months when my ugly brown regrowth really started to show and I couldn't get the mane as a whole to cooperate, I wouldn't be going to so much trouble. Dried and shaped, I added some greasy product to make it look piecey and gorgeous and threw in a cutesy little red bow for the hell of it. It looked weird with my numerous ear piercings, but I liked freaking out the conservative old people anyway.
Next up were clothes. Easy. I threw on a wide fishnet undershirt over my black bra, then added a black tank lined with studs along the neckline. The Gothic red lettering on the front spelled out “Devil Doll”, a little touch I had added in tribute to a retro-style Jazz singer. After the top was ready to go, I wriggled into a pair of old jeans torn up at the knee and slipped on a pair of black sneakers.
Make up. Luckily, I had plenty of time for this one. It took me about twenty to thirty minutes to put on make up, but only because I did the whole shebang. Foundation (no blush, though, because I kind of liked the pale-as-the-driven-snow look), eye shadow (the dark, smokin' look), eyeliner (again, heavy and dark), mascara, and a touch of coral lipstick to add some color. I went so far as to spray on a tangy hint of perfume, but I'd never confess to it. I was too hardcore for anything as feminine as perfume. There. All done. The awesomeness of my dark eye makeup almost justified my boring brown eyes. I would've given anything to have a cool color, like blue... or purple.
With about twenty minutes left for food before I had to leave, things were looking swell. But I really didn't have much of an appetite. I attributed my lack of hunger to the fact that I had just woken up, so instead of breakfast, I nicked a chocolate bar from the fridge and headed to work almost an hour early. The way I saw it, I'd have plenty of time to get work, and could hang out with some of the new friends I'd made before I actually had to start helping people.
I was new to Salt Lake City, as of two months ago. As soon as my mom and I had gotten here (my dad remained in Seattle after the divorce), my mom insisted that I go out and find a job. She said it would give me something productive to do over the summer before my Senior year of high school started. So I had set out, and after weeks of searching, gotten the perfect position. Lo and behold, I was a barista at a little local joint named Bad Ass Coffee. It was fantastic.
It took me about twenty minutes to walk out of my subdivision down the block to work, which was on the corner of an intersection not too far from downtown SLC. The shop itself was pushed up right against the street, with a tiny patio that hosted outdoor seating standing between the shop and the sidewalk. It was a prime spot for business, really, and with the quality of coffee we served, the only thing standing between us and success was the massive percentage of Mormons inhabiting our territory. But considering their history, there was always the chance that they would get persecuted by America or Mexico or sharks with surgically attached land legs and decide to move somewhere far away. Maybe Alaska. Yeah, Alaska could use a few more Mormons.
Surrounding the shop was a combination of old houses and small businesses inhabiting what used to be houses. The shop was really one of the only new buildings in the neighborhood. The houses were small, cozy, and charming, and the ones that were a little larger with more leg room were, for the most part, divided up into three or four separate apartments. My subdivision was a little newer, so my house didn't quite match the aesthetic that dominated the rest of the block.
There were only a few things that really stuck out from the area; one was my subdivision, and another was the shop. The last was the creepy old house that inhabited the corner across from the shop. It was big, overgrown, and unkempt. Where the rest of the houses had been made-over several times through the decades to keep up with fashion, this one house had been abandoned and neglected. In contrast to well groomed lawns and landscaping, fresh layers of paint and dainty curtains hung in windows, it had rampant, uncut grass littered with weeds, and boarded up windows. The trees didn't even seem to hold any kinship to the others along the block; they were wild and domineering, growing twisted and without regard to anything that stood in their paths. They were so large and untamed that they blocked out the sun- the house stood in shadow almost the entire day. The entire place gave me the heebie jeebies, and I loved it. It was thrilling and fascinating, and I found myself enamored of the place every time I passed it on my way to or from work.
As I passed it today, I stopped and regarded it for a long time. I knew people had to think I was crazy as they passed me thoughtfully eating my candy bar, but I had learned not to care for what others thought a long time ago. What really mattered was that I still had plenty of time before I needed to be in to work, and the place was practically beckoning me. It WANTED me to come inside.
Suffice to say, I deposited the candy wrapper into my spacious pocket and strode up the path to the front door. It was probably locked, I told myself as I clasped the cold brass handle. Except... it wasn't. The door swung open with surprising ease as soon as I pressed on the clasp release, and I found myself facing a wide foyer flanked by twin staircases that curved up to meet at the second story. Upstairs, even with the large candelabra that hung from the ceiling and had been wired for electric lighting, was a bridge that spanned across the top of the first floor and disappeared off to either side with the promise of more breathtaking house.
I was shocked by the amount of lavish furnishing that remained. How was it that no one had stolen any of this? Matching the rich candelabra on the ceiling were light brackets on the walls, also wired for bulbs (though I couldn't see if there were any on them; they were covered by beautiful glass lampshades). Flanking the light fixtures were assorted pictures in frames. I didn't give them much thought at first, until I took a second look and realized that all of the pictures were from different time periods. Some of them were even so old to be paintings... or tiny copies of paintings. And there were more recent ones. I recognized the clothing of one to be blatantly 1980's, while another sported the popular bouffant of the 1960's. Set against the walls were richly carved and painted wooden end tables, decorated with dried flowers in precious vases; plush chairs covered with rich, worn velvet; there was even an upright piano in the corner that looked like it could have been from the turn of the century era of ragtime. I squinted to see what lay beyond in the large, empty room past the stairs and passage under the bridge, but all that I could really make out were outlines of the dense, heavy curtains that covered the two story floor to ceiling windows. With none of the lights working (or at least on) and all of the windows completely covered up, it was impossible to see anything clearly beyond a few feet.
I turned away from straining to look into the large room and glanced again at the staircases; though the floors were all hardwood through the foyer and hallway, the stairs were covered with expensive, worn carpet. The railings were finely carved wood, also worn with age, and beyond the other side of the staircase to my left I could see a mannequin draped with old clothes. Upstairs, though it was difficult to see, I thought I could see the hallways decorated in the same manner as the walls downstairs.
Wait. A mannequin?
I stopped and did a double take at the mannequin, and it jolted a spasm of shock through me. It wasn't a mannequin, it was a person.
Difficult to tell, under all his coverings, but it was, in fact, living and breathing, which I accounted for as a human being. I cursed reflexively with the surprise, and stood staring at him wide eyed for several seconds. In response to my finally noticing him, he slowly walked out from behind the banister to where I could clearly see him.
It was no wonder I had mistaken him for part of the decor. All of his clothes were old fashioned, from the aged white shirt he wore under an intricately stitched vest to the tattered black cloak he wore over the whole package. He even had a scarf to hide the bottom half of his face, and the mop of long, unkempt black hair atop his head did a pretty good job of hiding the top half. All in all, he looked more like the scary villain from a fairy tale than a real person. But underneath the weird clothes and old scarf and messy hair, he almost looked... handsome. Brooding. Dark. Sexy.
We took each other in through the silence for several seconds, and then he spoke. His voice was rich and low, and held traces of an accent I couldn't place. I had never been good with accents anyway. “Who are you?”
“Um.”
I glanced toward the door, then back at him, and without answering, bolted. I half expected him to tackle me and start gnawing off my arm before I could get my foot out the door, but I got lucky. I managed to get into the glorious sunshine before he could grab me. But I didn't stop when I hit outside- no, I kept going. I ran across the street (almost causing an accident in the process- I crossed oncoming traffic) burst through the door of the shop, and sank down into a booth by the door. I sank my head down onto the cool metal of the table, and sat there for a second, catching my breath and trying to figure out what had just happened.
Did somebody actually live there, or had I had the misfortune of breaking in the exact some time as someone else? And for that matter, who was that guy? Some sort of freaky psychopath? That was the only explanation I could think of.
Taking a deep breath and letting it out, I poured all of my thoughts and feelings into one very meaningful, all-encompassing phrase.
“Holy bull-shnikeys.”