Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 117601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 588(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
REWARD. Missing since 10/20. Neutered male. Tuxedo black and white. May have a studded black leather collar. Answers to Loki or Lulu. Has a small piece missing on his left ear.
I sit back and read it. It reads fine. Clinical. Informative. But I want more. I want them to know Loki isn’t just a cat. Pets are never just animals. They’re family. So I add:
Please let us know if you see him. We miss him so much. Thank you.
We is me. Loki is my cat. Nora just took him under her wing because he and I were a package deal. We are both strays under her mercy. Lost souls moving in this world without any rhyme or reason.
Nora, with her big smile and even bigger heart. We’ve been rooming together for almost five years now, and I know that she is ready to start her next chapter in life. She wants to move in with Colt.
Every week, I try to muster up the courage to tell her that she can. That I’ll be fine. But the truth is, I might not be. The truth is, I’m not really fine. Most days, I feel like a flower cut from the stem, midwilt. Not dead yet, but unable to grow further.
I click on the mouse. My ad has been posted. I copy and paste it onto Facebook, just in case.
I can’t believe I have to go to work now.
Whoa. Work. I forgot all about work. I look up at the overhead clock hanging in our tiny open-plan kitchen, and it’s seven forty-five. Shit.
I run to my room, stumbling over one of Loki’s squeaky toys in the process, and slip into a long black dress and a matching cape—black on the outside, burgundy on the inside. I pull on my lacy black gloves, screw on my witch hat, and lace my boots before unzipping my duffel bag to ensure I have everything I need.
I run out of the apartment like my ass is on fire, get into my car, and slam the accelerator all the way to work. Luckily, there’s only one red traffic light on my way there. My phone, lying on the passenger seat, lights up with a message. I angle it to my face to see the text.
Pippa: Miss you mucho, bitch. Still haven’t given up on you. Call me.
I hate when she does this.
When she pretends like I’m Old Ever.
Like nothing happened.
Like I could still have nice things for myself.
Friends, family, a social life.
I open the text, then delete the message.
You don’t need to give up on me, Pip. I’ve given up on myself for both of us.
Fifteen minutes later, I step onto an imaginary soapbox on Essex Street, then clear my throat.
It’s not that I’m good with crowds—I hate public speaking of any kind—it’s that putting myself through something I absolutely loathe gives me a perverted sense of pleasure. As I said, I deserve any punishment I can get. Why not add frequent and stressful human interaction into the mix?
Tonight is packed. There are maybe fifty people waiting. The maximum we allow on a single tour. I adjust my cordless headset and smile a painful, wide smile that almost cracks my skin open. I know I’ve caught everyone’s attention with my ghoulish attire and red, witchy hair.
“Good evening, everyone, and welcome to the Salem Night Tour. My name is Everlynne, and I will be your tour guide.” Camera flashes blink back at me as people take pictures. I continue, feeling my soul drifting away from my body. I’ve always hated getting my picture taken. So this is a nightmare.
“We’re going to cover some of Salem’s history, including the witch hunt hysteria of 1692 and the exhumation of bodies of people who were believed to turn into vampires—yay, consumption!” I punch the air, making people laugh.
“We’ll talk murders, ghosts, curses, civil war. You know, all the fun stuff!”
I draw another wave of giggles from my audience. A mishmash of tourists from out of state and teenagers looking for a way to burn time tonight. Originally, I’d moved from San Francisco to Boston looking for a library job. But a week into the hubbub of the big city, I realized it was all too much. Too big, too gray, too harsh. Everything was expensive, packed, and sold out. Boston felt like San Francisco, sans the rose-colored filter through which I viewed my hometown. After dropping out of Berkeley and running away, it felt redundant to return to California a few weeks post my escape. So I moved to Salem instead. It seemed like it was tailor made for me.
Morbid? Check.
History drenched? Check.
Cold? Gloomy? Full of witchery and cemeteries? Check, check, check.
“First things first.” I grin at my audience conspiratorially. “I need to know who here still goes to school and wants to impress their history teacher?”