Page 2 of Monster in the Moonlight

Surprisingly, the routine I’ve become used to doesn’t play out.

When I hear a second voice join his, I perk up.

That’s different.

Whispers are exchanged, and I strain to hear the raspy but feminine response. It sounds like an older woman.

Although I can’t make out any words between them, the sharp tone of their conversation indicates arguing. The guy’s murmur is urgent and guttural, and she fires back with a hiss.

Has someone come to save me? His mother? Maybe he’s a serial killer who’s a huge momma’s boy, and he lives in his parents’ basement or something. That would explain why he brought me to a cave instead of keeping me in a house.

Hope bursts inside of me as I call out, “Hello?”

The voices stop for a second but start up again.

I scoot toward the tunnel to eavesdrop better.

“I’m trying to help her,” the guy says before muttering something I can’t make out.

“Have you tried explaining that to her?”

“Yes. Of course I have. She just won’t listen. She covers her ears or screams at me.”

“Well, what can I do?” The woman has the same accent as the man—European-sounding.

“Help her remember.”

Remember? Remember what? The night he took me?

She huffs, clearly irritated. “How can I make her remember something that hasn’t happened?”

“It did happen. It happened tome. And it would’ve happened to her if I hadn’t intervened.”

“Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve,” the woman sings tauntingly. “A lot of hypothetical jibber jabber.”

Okay. They’ve officially lost me. Their words literally make no sense.

Footsteps shuffle toward me, and I scramble back to my sad little bed. The man comes through the tunnel with his candle, and he does have my plate of food.

Behind him, a very small person follows. She doesn’t even get close to bumping her head on the low ceiling, which means she must be about four feet tall.

She’s not a child, though. When light from the flame hits her face just right, I see wrinkled skin framed by long, gray hair. Also, she’s wearing some weird clothes. The floor-length dress is fancy, made of purple silk and lace. Long sleeves cover her arms, ending in a point over her hand as part of it wraps around her middle finger. It reminds me of something someone would wear to a Renaissance fair.

My eyes go to the man.

His clothing is strange, too. His pants appear to be a khaki fabric, and the sleeveless shirt is lightweight cotton that buttons up the front. There’s visible stitching around the seams, like someone did it by hand.

Tucked under his arm, there’s a balled-up wad of yellow. He raises it up in offering to me, then he tosses it to the pile of the other clothing he’s brought back for me from his trips outside.

Another dress. I swear the fabric is so thin, it’s made of gauze. I’ve seen wedding veils thicker than that. And they all have short sleeves.

I don’t know how he expects me to wear those when it’s so cold. I’m constantly chilled in here as it is.

I’m wearing the same grimy outfit I was taken in—a yellow T-shirt, jeans, and my sneakers. It’s not comfortable to sleep in my shoes, but I’ve been doing it because I’m ready to run at a moment’s notice.

Rubbing my goose bump-covered arms, I sarcastically quip, “If I’d known I was getting kidnapped, I would’ve dressed for the occasion. It’s fucking freezing.”

The presence of someone else has given me the courage to speak. It’s the first thing I’ve actually said to my captor that isn’t a deafening screech.

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