Page 1 of A Shadow of Betrayal

ONE

Meyer

“See you in the morning, Meyer,” Margaret hollers over her shoulder, not bothering to look up from the long counter she is standing behind as she scrubs the remnants of milkshake and burger grease from the faded yellow Formica. Her white cotton ball bun sags to the side of her head, the day taking its toll on the petite seventy-three-year-old woman who is probably the only friend I have in the world. But that doesn't stop her from bustling about the small place, cleaning every inch of grime she can spot.

“Get some rest, Mags. I can come in early tomorrow and do the dishes,” I offer, a flicker of worry gnawing at the back of my mind as I watch her scrub the counter like the extra effort she puts into it might make the old, ugly counters shine like new again. Max and Mag’s Diner might be old and a little run down, but you won't find a cleaner place to eat in this tiny little town. The only problem is that Mags is getting older and has difficulty keeping up with the place. I rarely work nights. In fact, I avoid them at all costs, but when she called saying one of the high school girls that was supposed to come in and help her close called in sick, I came in to help.

I smile when she scoffs under her breath, grumbling something I can't quite make out as she waves a hand in front of her, dismissing my offer. Chuckling, I push open the heavy door of the diner and step out into the frigid October night air, shivering a little while yanking the thin sweater I have on tighter to my body to thwart the cold wind trying to freeze me to the bone.

I hate how cold it gets here. We had a week or two of comfortable fall weather before a cold front moved in and froze everything overnight.

Walking over to the small metal bike rack, I unchain my rusty bike and shiver when my fingers meet the ice-cold metal of the handlebars as I swing my leg over and jump up onto the seat. Keeping my eyes on the ground in front of me, I bike down the deserted main street, not wanting to look up and risk meeting the eyes of any monsters lurking in the shadows.

They are there; I know they are. I don't have to look to find them anymore. The weight of their gaze is heavy on my back, making my hands grip the handlebars so tight that my knuckles turn white.

“I hate night shifts,” I grumble to myself, my hot breath fogging in front of me as I pick up my pace and race down the street, hoping to make it home before the black clouds looming in the sky above extinguish the eerie yellow glow cast by the full moon. Biking down Main Street isn't a problem with the small antique lamps that hang from the tall black poles, but once I turn onto the dirt road that leads up to my grandfather's cabin, the moon’s light just might be enough to guide me home without having to use the flashlight on my phone. Something that I try to avoid when at all possible.

I would rather walk my bike in the dark than risk my light shining off the reflective eyes that haunt the night. It's hard to pretend I can't see the monstrous creatures when their eyes shine like a cat’s in between the trees, and once they know I can see them, it's game over.

Over the years, I have found that screaming and pointing at the nightmares living in the shadows only hurts me, not them. And once they know I can see them… once they know I’m alone… they like to come out and play.

For the most part, they stay away, only approaching if I make eye contact and they realize I can see what everyone else can’t. But there have been a handful of really nasty ones. The ones with razor-sharp teeth and foul-smelling breath. Their eyes are black and void of all emotions as they stalk their prey. The monsters whose eyes don't reflect the light in the night, never give you a warning like the others do. Those are the ones that haunt my dreams; the rest are more like really scary annoyances.

I bypass the small dark businesses that line Main Street, already closed for the night, and turn my bike onto the bumpy dirt road toward home. Pushing myself even more, I pedal as fast as I can, mentally berating myself for having a heart and coming in to help Mags close the diner. I should be in my house with the doors and windows bolted, tucked into bed, reading the romance book I picked up from the library yesterday. Heaven knows that I need more romance in my life and fewer monsters.

But no… I just had to go in and help.

It takes every ounce of self-control not to whirl my head towards the sharp noise of a twig snapping in the distance as I move along the tree-lined dirt road, making my heart skip a beat. I curse under my breath, making sure my eyes are locked on the road in front of me, even when all of my senses are screaming for me to look to my right, where I know something is watching me, hiding in the black cloak of night.

“Almost home, almost home,” I chant and almost piss myself when a howl echoes through the night air. “Just a coyote,” I mutter, swallowing the lump in my throat and hunkering down on my bike, pushing myself to the point that my legs shake and my muscles burn as I hit the hill that leads up to the cabin. My endurance is pretty good and has gotten even better since the old truck’s brakes went out, but even Tour de France racers would struggle on that last hill that Grandpa would call “Heartbreak Hill." My chuckle at the memory of him grumbling about the hill is cut short as a few softer howls sing out in answer to the first. Sweat trickles down my spine, making me shiver when the cold wind cuts through the thin fabric of my sweater, chilling me in an instant.

“Damn. Cold. Weather,” I growl between breathy pants.

The steep incline of the hill is kicking my ass, and I swear my lungs are about to burst when something crunches on the gravel directly behind me. But it gives me the adrenaline boost I need to crest the top of the hill and practically fly to where the single-bulb light fixture hangs from loose wires, illuminating the big front porch of my grandpa's cabin.

I steer my bike to the front step and jump off the rickety old thing like it's on fire, before dashing up the stairs and shoving my key in the lock, pushing through the door, and slamming it behind me. Quickly latching the two locks at the top of the door, I take an unsteady breath while flicking the deadbolt and, finally, the small lock on the knob itself before raising shaky hands in the air and backing away from the door.

“No more night shifts,” I whisper to the empty cabin, shaking my head and trying my best to catch my breath. Slowly lowering my hands, I move to turn on the small lamp to my right but pause when the sound of creaking wood sounds just outside the door. I inhale sharply, then hold my breath as I slowly lean forward, going up on my tiptoes to look through the cloudy peephole as I silently hope the bundle of rosemary that is hanging on the door and the onyx stones that run the perimeter of the house are enough of a deterrent to whatever is out there.

I haven't put salt out in a few weeks since the nightmares haven't been as active, staying in the trees and hardly ever coming into the yard at night. But I may have to add some to the window sills and porch in the morning, simply for peace of mind. Grandpa had been the one to teach me about the herbs and crystals that helped keep the monsters at bay, and I have been forever grateful to him for that. He may not have been able to see them himself, but he is the only person to help me, instead of looking at me like I'm crazy.

I blink and tilt my head one way, then the other, in an attempt to look over the area of my porch, but there is nothing there. Wood creaks again, but this time it's the walls as the high winds increase their speed, beating against the shelter of my house, tearing a choked laugh from my throat.

“Stupid wind,” I mutter, glad for once that I live alone so no one could witness me losing my mind like this.

I have an overactive imagination, but who can blame me since I've literally been haunted by monsters only I can see? Well, me and mom, that is. But dad had her carted off to some mental hospital before I turned eight when she boarded up all the windows and nailed the front door of our house shut. He found the two of us sitting in the middle of the living room, a large salt circle surrounding us as mom screamed about the monsters coming to get her, and me by default.

I quickly realized then that I had to keep my mouth shut, or I would share the same fate my mom did. She only lasted three years in that place before she took her own life, and I refuse to let that be my future. So instead, I became a master of avoidance. I avoided any questions about the monsters my mother claimed to see. I avoided my father’s ever watchful eye when I jumped for seemingly no reason. And most of all, I avoid the eyes that follow my every move.

Flicking on the lamp, I walk across the living room and into the kitchen, yanking off my sweater and cringing at the smell of burgers and fries that cling to me like an unwelcome ex-lover. I showered this morning, not knowing I’d be working this evening, and now I'll have to shower again, using even more of the already watered-down shampoo and conditioner I have been trying to ration until I get paid next week.

Wrenching open the fridge, I grab one of the blue beer cans inside, popping the top and taking a drink as I walk back to the couch in the living room, crumpling down on the worn green and yellow fabric. I only have two more beers left, and I was going to save them for next week since I had one last night, but after the stressful ride home, I need something to take the edge off.

Reaching up, I yank the hair tie out of my long blonde hair and let it fall in messy waves over my shoulders; the knots make it puff up in weird places, but I don't care. It's not like I have anyone to impress.

A small meow filters down the stairs at the side of the room, and a fast ball of orange fur bounds down them at lightning speed before prancing across the floor and jumping up onto the couch next to me. “Well, I guess I do have you. But you probably don’t care what I look like, huh, buddy?” I ask as Milo nuzzles his soft nose into my hand, tilting his head to the side so I can scratch behind his ears. I let him crawl onto my lap and smile as he spins in a circle, scoping out the most comfortable place to sit before he curls into my side and closes his blue eyes.

Letting my head fall back, I rest against the couch as I set my beer on the side table next to the lamp and take a deep breath, relaxing to the soft purrs coming from the small orange feline on my lap. I need to get up and shower since I have to open the diner tomorrow and won't have the energy to shower and dry my hair before work. But my tired body doesn't want to move.

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