Cold Hearts

By: Sharon Sala

One



It began with phone calls in the night.

The moment Melissa Sherman answered, the connection would be broken. After a time, the calls escalated to heavy breathing and ugly laughter. It wasn’t until the caller began telling her in a slow husky whisper the disgusting things he was going to do to her that she finally broke, screaming obscenities in his ear, calling him an outright coward hiding behind walls and darkness, and hung up. Then she unplugged her landline and took comfort in the fact that he didn’t know the number to her cell phone.

She had less than two weeks of peace and quiet before the stalking began.

* * *



Lissa’s starfish night-light had seen her through most of elementary school, all of high school and a broken heart, four years of college and six years of teaching in Savannah, Georgia.

This past summer she and her night-light had returned to Mystic, West Virginia, to teach first grade. She’d never really thought about coming home to teach, but having her childhood home to live in free and clear had been too good to turn down. It was a hard trade-off, inheriting the house as she lost her last parent, but family memories were strong and vivid in every room.

Tonight the starfish was casting a faint yellow glow, lighting the way from her bedroom into the hall as she ran toward the living room, her footsteps making little slap-slap sounds on the hardwood floor.

It was after 2:00 a.m. and she’d already been up once, certain there was someone outside her house. The sound had been right beneath her bedroom window, a tapping sound, but nothing natural, because it had a very unnatural stop-and-go rhythm. It had taken all her nerve to look out, and then, when she did, she had seen nothing.

Uneasy, she’d gone back to bed and had just drifted off to sleep when she’d heard another sound that had had her on her feet in seconds. It was the sound of boots stomping heavily on the wooden surface of her front porch. Now she was running through the house in her old flannel pajamas. When she turned on the porch light to look out, she saw no one and nothing out of place. She thought about calling the police, but there was nothing to tell other than the fact she was scared out of her mind and the house that used to mean sanctuary now felt like a trap.

If her father was still alive he would have been sitting outside in the dark with a shotgun, waiting for the sucker to come back. And the longer she thought about that, the angrier she became, until she yanked the door open, letting it hit the wall with a bang as she stomped out onto the porch.

“You think this is funny?” she yelled. “You come back here again and we’ll see how hard you laugh with a load of buckshot in your ass.”

Then she strode back in the house with her head up and blond curls bouncing, slamming the door behind her. Just to punctuate the promise, she turned on every light in the house and then went to bed.

* * *



Across the darkened street her stalker, a man named Reece Parsons, was crouched in an alley, grinning.

She was a feisty little bitch, but that was how he liked them. He could tell she would be fine in the sack, but she wasn’t ready yet. He wanted her afraid for her life before he raped her because that, too, was how he rolled. As soon as she went back inside and closed the door, he slipped away.

* * *



The next time Lissa woke up it was 6:00 a.m. and her alarm was blaring. She rolled over and shut it off, facing the fact that it was not only time to get ready for work, but it was also raining.

She threw back the covers to get up, then winced as she stood. The floor was cold, and because of the rain, there would be no recess, which was a teacher’s worst nightmare. This day couldn’t get worse.

She headed for the bathroom to shower and paused at the sink to eye the knot of curls in her hair. Rainy days made her naturally curly hair go haywire, and today was no exception.

When her gaze landed on the little brown mole just above the right corner of her lips, she frowned. Mack Jackson, the boy from high school who’d broken her heart, used to kiss the mole for good luck before every football game. She had been trying to forget him for nearly ten years now but without much success. Such was life.

An hour later she was on her way out the door with hot coffee in one hand and a backpack full of games she would need for the indoor play periods, something they all had to get through before this miserable-ass day could come to an end.

But then the car wouldn’t start and she realized she’d been wrong. The day had already gotten worse. She turned the key again and again, until the engine finally fired. Mumbling a grudging thank-you to the universe, she turned on the wipers and backed out of the driveway. But the moment she put the car in Drive, the engine began sputtering.

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