Page 1 of Shadowed By the Alien
CHAPTER ONE
RAVEN
For months, I’ve had the feeling that someone has been following me, watching me, except when I’m home. Is it because of how dangerous post-occupation Earth can be for a single woman, or because my dad’s made me paranoid, always talking about taking precautions, especially because he has a job high in the government? A job that makes me a target.
Right now is one of those times that I sense a presence nearby. I stop and listen, but hear nothing out of the ordinary. Kids running from house to house, laughing, giggling while trick or treating.
Despite the glorious weather, I’m distracted, unable to enjoy the holiday. No one is standing near me, and yet I’m sure I’m not alone.
It’s your imagination, sweet pea. No one’s following you. Just stay within the three-block radius and you’ll be fine.
I don’t buy this sudden agreeable side of my dad that allows me to go out any time of day or night as long as I stay within the boundaries we discussed. But I must admit, these last fewmonths no one has approached me, as if he waved a magic wand, and, poof, the Brotherhood, gangs, and other low-life assholes no longer harass me. It’s as if the pied piper swept through here and led all the rats away.
“Hi, Raven!” a voice with a mid-west accent calls from across the street.
“Charlotte!” I screech and turn to step off the curb.
“No, wait there. I’ll come to you. Give me a sec to lock my bike.”
Gosh, I haven’t talked to her in months. “Where have you been?”
A moment later, she pulls me into a tight hug, and then her body tenses. She slips free of me and her voice pitches high. “You have?—”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, not sure why she stopped mid-sentence. That’s not the first time that’s happened to me, either. I’ve had a lot of encounters recently where people tense and then inexplicably stop talking, only to continue the conversation a minute later as if nothing’s wrong. No explanation. Or worse, an outright lie.
People think I can’t tell when they’re lying. I can. The shake of their voice, the quickened pace, the altered pitch… all the subtle changes put me on guard.
“Charlotte?” I call her name, hoping to get a reaction.
“Sorry, Raven. Everything’s f-fine. I suddenly remembered that I left the stove on at home.”
Ah, huh. Sure. Charlotte doesn’t cook. She avoids it at all costs.
“I can’t talk now,” she quickly adds. “But I’ll drop by your house in a few days, when life calms down, okay?”
“Sounds good,” I say as she hugs me again. Soft footsteps echo for only a minute until she runs up the steps of a brownstone, knocks on the door, and enters.
“Lame wizard costume, lady,” a teen yells at me as he passes by.
“I’m a witch,” I yell back. Wearing a black dress with a tattered hem should make that obvious, especially since I have the right hair for it. Jet black with curls. Okay, tight curls aren’t exactly witch-like, but who says a witch has to have flat, scraggly hair?
I should have brought a broom to complete the look, but I hate carrying anything if I don’t need it. The chance to walk without testing out the pavement in front of me is freeing. Outside my zone, I don’t have that option.
The wind changes, and that familiar scent of cedar and cloves hits me. When I angle my head to listen, I hear nothing unusual, so I resume my walk to my cousin’s house while attempting to convince myself my dad is right. That no one’s following me.
That’s getting harder with each occurrence.
The scent of cedar and cloves. The occasional snap of a twig. The unusual behavior of friends like Charlotte earlier.
Instead of turning left towards Noah’s, I veer right and head to the park, which should be empty at this time of night.
The grass beneath my feet transitions to mulch when I reach the playground. I know every inch of this playground like the back of my hand. After the war, everyone pitched in to ensure the neighborhood kids had a safe place to play instead of the bombed-out buildings that dominate the New York City landscape. I helped design the layout and others erected the structures. I spend a lot of time here, thinking, feeling pride in a job well-done.
That familiar scent wafts by as I pass the monkey bars.
“I know you’re there,” I say out loud.
My shadow doesn’t answer me. He underestimates me. Most people do, but that’s their problem, not mine. No, my problem is proving that I’m being followed.
