Wicked Vengeance
Halloween in my
family had not always been fun, but it certainly has been interesting – all
because of the certain paranoia of my dear little sister. When she was
thirteen, the proper teen-age to consider cutting any ties to the tradition of
trick-or-treating, rather than go out to get candy from random strangers, she
insisted on going out on a case close to midnight (mind you, it was a school night). I can’t exactly
recall what the case was about (something along the lines of a serial killer
who wore a “pumpkin helmet” and went by the moniker “Jack the Lantern” – yes,
that is a play on “Jack the Ripper”). Sammi, my sister, has the most incredible
imagination when it comes to virtually everything, especially the holidays.
There is this infamous story about a certain Christmas...but more on that
later.
Right now, I want
to tell you about a case we took just recently for Halloween. It all began with
this little fella named Dante, an 8-year-old Salem, Massachusetts African
American child who sought out the help of Sammi and me through our special
website (“weirdandwonderful.com”). Poor Dante has had it rough since the last
Halloween. As boys do, he was dared into a situation that he had zero
accomplishment in. The dare was orchestrated by friends of his older teenage
brother (Darren) that involved Dante spending three straight hours alone in a
cottage situated in the cemetery where the Sanderson sisters once lived. Yes, those Sanderson Sisters – Winifred,
Mary, and Sarah (I believe they made a movie about them back in the 90s – can’t
remember what it’s called – “Abracadabra,” I think).
Stories have spread
across town of the cottage still being occupied by the sisters, who dabbled in
serious witchcraft back in 1693. Almost all of these stories Dante had heard,
and he believed every word. Taking advantage of his developed paranoia, Darren’s
friends (Zack, Cameron, and J.K.) told Dante to stay in the cottage and not
step foot out of it until his three hours were up (How low is that?). Not even
Darren was allowed to be with his poor little brother in the cottage, but he
was allowed to accompany him to the cemetery (at least these boys still had
morals about an 8-year-old being in a cemetery at night).
Unfortunately,
Dante never made it past the front steps and lost the dare. His punishment:
being forced to wear a Jack-O-Lantern costume every day to school and
everywhere else, including his own home, until he reached his senior year (just
reflecting on this part of the story makes my blood boil). He had become the
butt of many jokes all over his elementary school with a few kids pointing to
him and yelling “Punk-in-costume.” The cruelty of children has not changed a
bit since the days when I was in school.
A week before the
next Halloween (and the one-year anniversary of the dare he lost to), Dante
decided to skip school and go back to the cemetery, facing the Sandersons’
centuries-old cottage with immense trepidation as he stood alone in a dense
fog. Once every month, he came to the cemetery to face the cottage, mustering
the courage to enter. Each visit was a step closer to the cottage, until he was
practically a step away from the front porch. During one visit, he was just
about to succeed in his goal of entering the ancient structure all by himself,
but then something incredibly bizarre happened: the entire cottage vibrated and
shook! Now, at this point in the story, I can tell what you – my faithful
reader – are thinking. A cottage can’t
possibly move unless there’s an earthquake – and there are no earthquakes in
Salem. Well, I thought the same thing when Dante told this to Sammi and me.
But I’m getting ahead of myself – let me continue where I left off...
Having just
neared the point of maintaining bravery, Dante was resorted to the scared child
he was on his first night at the cemetery and ran from the shaking cottage (and
out of the cemetery altogether). Thankfully, he ran right into the waiting arms
of his brother, who had to skip school himself just to check on Dante – and
also yell at him. As it turned out, word spread quickly about Dante’s visit to
the cemetery and eventually got around to Darren...and their parents. Needless
to say, the two boys were thoroughly scolded and punished by them. No phones,
television, PlayStation, or Internet for a month and – worst of all – no
trick-or-treating. Although Darren had gotten too old to trick-or-treat (that
punishment was more for Dante), he was plenty pissed over all the other
restrictions set by his folks. Dante, on the other hand, could not care less
what his parents said he can or cannot do; he had to go back to the cemetery and conquer his fear.
Breaking one of
the restrictions (no Internet), Dante used his dad’s office room computer one
day after school to engage in a Skype chat with Sammi (from our website).
Apparently, he learned about her through a news broadcast his parents watched
on one of the cases that made Sammi and me famous (a supposedly-haunted
Volkswagen Beetle with the number 53 on its front hood – I’ll have a story to
tell on this another time). The chat between Sammi and Dante did not go down as
pleasantly as Dante (and myself, for that matter) had hoped. I’m not proud to
admit it, but my sister can be quite cold and inhuman in the way she addresses
other, more civil people. It didn’t matter if you were Black, White, Asian,
tall, short, gay, straight, smart, dumb, or any distinctive characteristic -
she will treat you the same way as she treats me (even on her good days) - as if you didn’t matter to
her universe.
Poor little Dante
received the worst of the worst from Sammi in that particular Skype chat. She
berated him for losing the dare that led to his daily wear of the
Jack-O-Lantern costume - something that she had deduced before Dante even told
her. Luckily, I was in the adjacent room of our apartment in San Francisco’s
Chinatown District (located one story above “Miss Chung’s Lo Mein Shop”),
watching the latest episode of Scandal,
when I heard Dante crying loudly from his end of the Skype connection.
Responding as quickly as I could to the situation, I rushed into the living
room (our nice little section reserved for our computer activities with a
lovely antique desk that contrasts with the high-tech Apple computer that sits
upon it) and – in every literal sense of the word – pushed Sammi aside to come
into Dante’s view.
“It’s alright,
hon. The mean ol’ lady’s gone. I’m here now.” I told him, at the exact moment I
took over the chat. “What’s the matter?”
“‘Mean old lady?’
Seriously?” Sammi snarled at me, while her butt sat firmly on the cold hardwood
floor.
After giving her
the proper shush she deserved, I returned to looking at the computer screen
that Dante’s tear-drenched face was still displayed on. “Hey, hey, now. It’s
O.K.” As I sat there, comforting this poor child, I realized that we had not
been properly introduced to each other. “My name’s Angela. I’m the mean ol’
lady’s nice ol’ sister. What’s your
name?”
“Dante,” he told
me, after a few sniffs. He seemed to have opened up to me pretty fast – much
faster than I’d assumed he did with Sammi, before she blew it with her
abruptness.
“You have a
really cool name, Dante.” I wasn’t just being the typical over-complimentary
adult here; I legitimately appreciated this little kid’s name. “Tell me, Dante.
What do you want us to help you with?”
He shared his
story with us, leading up to the moment of our chat, and finally asked for our
help in solving the mystery behind the “living” cottage.
Sammi stood up
firmly, clasping her hands behind her. “Your case intrigues me, Monte.”
“Dante.” I corrected
her through gritted teeth.
“Yes. Dante. I’ll
accept your case. It’s the perfect holiday caper. My sister and I will leave
for Salem in the morning.”
I smiled at the
webcam, expressing my excitement for Dante. “That sounds cool, doesn’t it,
Dante?”
Dante smiled back
but looked mostly in gratitude to Sammi. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Sammi, on the
other hand, showed no acknowledgment to the boy’s gratefulness, her back facing
the camera. Of course, after a swift kick to the shin (delivered by yours
truly), she finally said in a frustrated voice, “You’re welcome.”
Dante closed the
chat before I did. Once we were disconnected, I didn’t hesitate to begin
scolding my sister for her treatment of our newest client. “Goodness gracious,
Sammi. He’s only eight. Give him a break.”
“And that, dear
sister, is the most intriguing aspect of the case. Prepubescent children have
the wildest of imaginations.”
There are times
like this when I just really want to punch her in the face.
She can speak
from experience on children having “wild imaginations,” having had one herself
when she was one. Remember that story
I promised to share about our Christmas? Well, here’s a nice segue to it. Back
in the Christmas of ‘94, when we were living in our dreamy suburban house in Malibu,
Sammi sat and waited for Santa Claus by the fireplace in our living room. She
was around the same age as Dante then, and her sweet, innocent nature had not
yet been tarnished by the event that occurred that eventful evening. I had been
sleeping upstairs in the bedroom Sammi and I normally shared. Our folks and I
awoke to screaming around 4 a.m. We rushed as fast as possible to the living
room and found Sammi screaming at the fireplace. Due to the unusual register of
her scream, it was difficult to tell if it was in fear or something else
entirely. All I knew was that I would never in my life forget how it sounded -
never had I heard my sister scream so terrifyingly. The next morning, Christmas
Day, whereas we were supposed to be in a festive mood, we were concerned for
Sammi, who we spent nine hours trying to convince that Santa Claus was not a
slim, brown-haired man with a sour attitude (a description that strongly fit
the advertising executive Scott Calvin, who our father once worked for before
Mr. Calvin mysteriously disappeared). Sammi remained unconvinced and was pretty
upset by our accusations of her making the whole thing up. I remember our
mother (a child psychologist) stating the exact words that Sammi herself said
about Dante.
Since that day,
Sammi had undergone several sessions with my mother and many of her colleagues,
each one noting an increasing change in her personality. I noticed it as well
(and I’m no psychologist). The joyful, carefree little girl I knew as my sister
was no more. Standing in her place was this cold, unfeeling woman who dedicated
her life to studying the unsolved mysteries of the world and even trying to
solve them herself. It started as just a phase (as our parents called it),
stemmed from her visit by the “Faux Santa,” but – as she got older – it
snowballed into an unhealthy obsession that negatively impacted her social
life. And it appeared that the less open she became, the more her intelligence
had increased, receiving straight A’s all through middle and high schools. She
attended college at 17, but it only lasted a year. Sammi was committed to a
mental institution one night, after attempting to investigate a “strange
happening” that occurred in Szalinski Tech. The only thing that kept her from
serving a lengthy sentence in prison was to plead a case of insanity.
Seven whole years
she spent in that mental institution, surrounded by heaven knows what type of
people. Once she was out, I took it upon myself to take care of her – keep her
from making the same mistake that landed her in the asylum. But Sammi was
persistent, still going after these impossible, unsolvable cases and trying to
play detective (Did I mention she once pursued a degree in criminology?). I
spoke to Mom, finding out what I could do to stop this craziness and get my
sister back. Unfortunately, there was no solution she could prove – except to
allow Sammi to go after these, as she put it, “weird and wonderful cases,”
since it gives her a sense of the freedom she needed after seven years in the
institution. So I set Sammi off the leash and let her investigate wherever and
whenever she wanted (we often traveled the globe with funds provided by Dad’s
hefty severance package from his job, subsequent to Calvin’s disappearance,
that included a quarter of a million dollars). We solved so many cases all over
the world that the media eventually caught attention to our activities
(especially the Volkswagen one I mentioned earlier). Even though I consider
questioning my sister and her beliefs, I have to admit that being with her on
these unusual cases has made me respect this new woman she became all those
years ago, despite being a heartless witch at times.
But enough of
family history – let’s get back to our story...
The next day, on
the eve of Halloween, we arrived in Salem and showed up to Dante’s house, using
the address he emailed to us shortly after our Skype chat. We expected Dante to
be the one to answer the door once we ran the bell; however, it was Darren who
answered and was rightfully surprised by our presence. That surprise was soon
replaced with a whole different type of emotion the minute he glanced in my
direction. At the time, it did not occur to me that he was doing it, but Darren
was scoping me out big time. I should
have known better than to come dressed in skinny jeans, brown boots, a blue
wool jacket, and a cleavage-heavy grey t-shirt to a home of a teenage boy with
raging hormones.
Once he did
manage to get his hormones in check, Darren defiantly told us, “My parents told
us that we’re not allowed to invite
strangers. You’re gonna have to...”
The front door
was closing on us, yet my sister – ever the persistent one (even at the age of
27) – barged right in, slamming the door against Darren’s face. While I checked
on him to see if he was alright, Sammi moved to the center of the foyer and
yelled, “Dante! DANTE!” Her voice echoed throughout the luxurious and
blindingly white home of our little client. Dante and Darren certainly came
from a well-provided family. I don’t think I’d ever stepped foot in a suburban
home so glamorous since ours in Malibu.
Dante ran down
the flight of stairs across from the foyer. His pumpkin costume bounced in
sequence to the rush of energy he displayed while making his way to us. If it
were not for the unsettling nature behind that costume, I would have found it
cute on him. Aw, who am I kidding – he looked cute regardless! He was certainly
much smaller in person (the little fella went up to my waistline and barely
close to that of my taller sister).
He was such a precious little guy that I couldn’t help but to hug him like I
already knew him the minute he approached. It was a gesture that definitely
didn’t sit well with Sammi, who said of it, “Good grief, Angela. You barely
know the kid.”
“After what he’s
been through, he deserves one,” I snapped back.
She went on to
make a random comment about Dante and Darren’s middle class status, showing off
her deductive skills as usual by observing their home, having only stood in it
for a mere minute.
“Hey, I know you.”
Darren said, pointing to her. “You’re the tabloid woman – the one who solves
all those weird cases.”
Sammi gave half a
smirk to this recognition. “Is that what the media calls me?”
“No, it’s what
most of everyone on Facebook and Twitter call you.” Darren said, and I couldn’t
stifle a chuckle at this. “They think you’re as crazy as the cases you solve.”
That half smirk
on my sister’s face faded, and she swiftly switched to defense mode. “I don’t
consider the opinions of a bunch of lazy, Cheeto-finger-sucking virgins as...”
Knowing the hell
that was coming up next, I made the move to step in and say, “Hey, why don’t we
focus on helping Dante? You know, the reason we’re here.”
Sammi nodded in
agreement (it’s rare she ever does that) and got her mind back on track. “Right.
Darren, call your friends. Let them know about the new dare that Dante has
challenged them to.”
The rest of us
were stunned by this plan. “WHAT?”
Obviously, I had
to voice my objections on this idea of hers. “Hold up. I thought we came here
to diffuse the issue of these boys forcing Dante to wear his costume every day.”
“What the hell
gave you that impression?” Sammi
sourly remarked (I really can’t stand
it when she leaves me out of the loop like that). “No, we’re here to get to the
bottom of his living cottage, and the only way to do that is to challenge our
challengers with a dare of our own.”
“And what exactly
are we daring them to do?” Darren questioned (he sounded just as aggravated over
this as I did).
You couldn’t tell
it from her emotionless demeanor, but Sammi certainly loved every second of
this. As always, there was a method to her madness. “If Dante spends the entire
three hours in the cottage, he has to finally take off the costume and Zack,
Cameron, and J.K. themselves must wear their own embarrassing costumes. If
Dante fails again, then he has to
spend an entire summer camped at the cottage – alone.”
Darren’s eyes
nearly fell from his head, being as wide as they were. “My little brother?
Alone? In that cottage?”
The plan was
beyond childish and extreme. But I shouldn’t expect any less from my sister.
Halloween had
arrived, and as much as I wanted to play chaperone for Dante in his
trick-or-treating (despite being banned from it), I was one of his escorts to
the cemetery. Upon our arrival, Darren warned us that Zack, Cameron, and J.K.
will know of our involvement and probably call off the bet. But Sammi had
counted on this happening.
“What do you
mean?” I asked her out of curiosity.
“The vibrations
and shaking Dante saw...they happened so close to the anniversary of his first
visit that they can’t be coincidence, wouldn’t you think so?”
I was beginning
to see her point. “You mean that it was timely rigged to act out at the precise
moment Dante stood near it?”
The way we were
going back and forth (which is how it usually was with us in these cases, when
our minds became synced for that one special moment), I completely forgot
Darren and his little brother were standing near us. “You guys suspect Zack,
Cameron, and J.K. are the ones who’ve been fooling my lil’ bro?” There was a
hint of anger I noticed in his voice. It would be best to know for sure what
was happening there before we all jumped to conclusions.
That’s why I was
glad to hear Sammi say, “We’re going to find out – and there’s only one way to.”
By nightfall,
Dante was finally inside the cottage. It wasn’t easy getting him inside, but I
managed to give him some courage by telling him how Darren, Sammi, and I would
be watching close by. Sure enough, we were there, watching closely and
carefully (and even cautiously) from the base of an old willow tree. After the
first hour, nothing happened - the cottage had not budged whatsoever. I decided
to make some conversation with my sister and ask her what did make it move and how three teenage boys would have the
resources to pull off such a crafty and (dare I say) scientific prank.
She dodged
answering my question by asking Darren one of her own: “As long as you’ve known
those boys, have you known them to take part in any science clubs at your
school?”
Darren snickered.
“Those fools don’t even know how to make a potato into a battery.”
Sammi sighed – more
with interest than frustration. “The mystery of this case is growing by the
second.”
The second hour
soon passed and, other than Sammi going “Number One” on the gravestone of a
notorious slave owner who died in the mid-1800s, still nothing noteworthy had
happened. Darren was the one who started conversation, this time with me,
asking what I could only call the cutest question I think a young man like him
could ever ask me: “What school you attend?”
I busted out
laughing at this unexpected inquiry from the teenager. “I’m sorry?”
“Your school?
What’re you? A junior? A senior?”
It immediately
dawned on me that Darren had (for the whole time we had been there) believed me to be a teenager. It definitely
explained the way he scoped me at the front porch of his house, as well as the
repeated times I caught him gazing in my direction when I bent over. I had to
break it to the poor kid gently. “Oh, sweetheart. I hate to tell ya this,
but...I am nowhere near your age. My
school days are long behind me.”
The look on his
face was fortunately not the one of heartbreak as I had expected. He was much
rather amused than anything else.
After nearly two
minutes in speechless awe of my revelation, he gave the most flattering
compliment a woman my age could receive: “You look seventeen!”
I don’t think I
could’ve smiled any bigger from that. “Really? Wow.”
“How old are you
for real?”
I didn’t answer;
instead, I shushed him and said, “Let’s not spoil the moment, shall we?”
The third and
final hour came. Darren had fallen asleep, his head resting on my shoulder at
first but then drooping down to my breasts; his mouth was gaped open right over
my cleavage, giving way for any drool to fall right in the crevice (thankfully,
none came – he wasn’t such a messy sleeper). I was so tired that I didn’t
bother moving him; plus, he earned brownie points with me for that sweet
compliment earlier. Sammi, on the other hand, had her attention rested on the
cottage, which she did not turn away from the entire duration we spent there
gazing at it. From the sharpness of her focus on the old structure, I almost
believed her to be genuinely concerned for Dante’s well-being.
“You care,” I
softly said, diverting her eyes away from the cottage for only a millisecond.
“What?”
“You care...about
that poor child in there...don’t you?”
She glared my way
again, her chocolate brown eyes looking like black circles in the night
atmosphere. “I only care about something weird and wonderful happening.”
Surprisingly, just after she said this, we heard a low, humming noise that
sounded like a running electric generator. It came directly from the rear of
the cottage. Immediately, I woke Darren up from his peaceful slumber over my
bosom, alerting him to the noise. With all three of us attentive, we approached
the cottage and discovered chrome, high-tech piece of machinery that looked
like one giant air-conditioner (though I’m being rhetorical on this
description, Sammi was quick to criticize me on the “pale comparison,” but you
catch my drift). Etched on the side of the machine in big, bold, black letters
were the words “Szalinski” and “Tech.” My heart skipped a beat in fear of the
trigger that had been pulled in my sister’s mind upon seeing the name of the
corporation – the memories that sparked from her hellish years in the
institution.
But, to my
surprise, Sammi remained completely calm. “Szalinski Tech. The company founded
and operated by famous inventor Wayne Szalinski, known for experimentation of
cutting-edge technology.” I couldn’t tell if she was reciting this information
more for my benefit or Darren’s – possibly
his, since I already knew everything I did about Szalinski Tech (except for
what Sammi herself knew – but that’s a whole different perspective entirely).
All of the
sudden, there was a scream from inside the cottage, and considering Dante was
the only one inside, it was obvious who it was. We did not waste one second of
rushing into the cottage – I believe Sammi moved faster than Dante and I had
(either she was genuinely concerned for Dante or she wanted to see what scared
him – I’m betting on the second one). We ran inside to find our little buddy
standing before the strangest scene I have ever witnessed in the three years
Sammi and I have been investigating: glowing forms of the Sanderson sisters
themselves, looking exactly as they did three hundred and twenty-one years from
the last time they roamed the earth.
“Leave now,
weaklings! Or else suffer being turned into itty-bitty snails that we will
feast upon!” The manifestation of Winifred threatened through her massive buck
teeth.
Darren and Dante
were clinging onto each other with fright, while I stood paralyzed from
whatever it was I had seen across from us. Sammi, however, made a defiant
stance against the manifestations, boldly declaring, “I deny your existence!”
She firmly stood between the sisters and Dante – another gesture that made me
question whether or not she was truly watching out for the little guy. “Go
ahead – make due on your threat!”
Winifred’s eyes
darted left and right, seemingly hesitant. “Really?”
“Did I stutter?”
Sammi barked.
The tension in
the cottage shifted dramatically from the second Sammi challenged the sisters.
I noticed how dumbfounded the sisters were of what to do next and, by the
clever grin on Sammi’s face, she had anticipated this reaction. Suddenly, I
felt a lot less alarmed and a little more sure of the fact that what we
witnessed was another fabrication. I was so relieved that I almost didn’t catch
Sammi hurling a wrench (that I presumed she took from the Binford Tools brand
toolbox by the generator) at Sarah. It struck her right in the forehead,
causing her to exclaim (in a masculine
voice), “Aw, damn, man!”
Darren instantly
recognized the voice. “J.K.?”
Sammi retrieved
another item from the left front pocket of her black wool jacket – one that
resembled a car remote – and pressed a button on the small device. In a flash,
the Sanderson sisters were transformed into Zack, Cameron, and J.K., all of
them wearing the witches’ dresses and even makeup (which looked rather
disturbing on three teenage Caucasian boys that resembled male versions of the sisters). The minute he saw his so-called “friends”
exposed for their cruel prank on his little brother, Darren was furious – ready
to charge at his former buddies. Frankly, I didn’t blame him for wanting to,
but these boys had to be properly punished for their crime; so I held him back.
“Their egos are
bruised enough.” I told him. “Besides, I have something way better.” With a wicked smile, I took out my smartphone and
switched on the camera function, aiming the lens right toward the cross-dressing
hooligans. Once I saw the image come into focus on the touchscreen, I snapped
the perfect photo that I immediately had posted all over the Internet, from my
Facebook page to the Weird and Wonderful site. Seeing what I had done, Darren
laughed hysterically. “I’ll email you a copy.”
While Darren and
I were all laughs and high-fives, Sammi remained severely serious over the
matter, approaching the boys and questioning them as if she worked for the FBI,
pacing left and right in front of them as they stood in line. “Where did you
boys manage to get the tech?”
Zack, Cameron,
and J.K. did not say a word, prompting me to walk up to them with my phone,
which had the photo I just took of them saved as the desktop background. “You
know, fellas, not only can this phone take pictures, but it can also call the
police.”
“It was the tall
Polish chick!” Cameron blurted out so fast that I barely noticed that it was
him that caved, to the dissatisfaction of his accomplices.
“What’s her name?”
Sammi inquired.
Zack shook his
head as it hung low in shame. “We never found it out.” I could see he was being
honest about this, which was why Sammi and I left it alone for right now.
Although Sammi
wanted me to really contact the
police to arrest Zack, Cameron, and J.K., I thought it best to just call their
parents instead (the boys didn’t really commit any serious crime – they were merely pawns in whatever plot the real
person behind this, the “tall Polish chick,” had orchestrated it for). Of
course, I did in fact contact the police for the stolen Szalinski Tech
property. All of them arrived at the same time, along with Darren and Dante’s
parents (who I contacted first to alert them of the boys’ presence at the
cemetery, making sure to add that they were safe). Needless to say, Zack,
Cameron, and J.K. were strictly punished by their parents (they actually received
harsher punishments than Darren and Dante had with theirs); Darren and Dante
were cleared of their own, after I had talked their parents over Dante’s
problem and why it was important for him to take action – the little fella was
only fighting for his dignity.
Freed from his
pumpkin costume, Dante returned to his normal street clothes (an adorable Wreck-It Ralph t-shirt and jeans). To be
honest, I had hoped he kept the costume on, since he was allowed to
trick-or-treat again; but he told me that he really wanted to go as Iron Man
for Halloween. The sweet little guy thanked me for helping him, this time
hugging me first.
He then went to
hug Sammi – something that I meant to warn him about. But I was too late.
“GET YOUR HANDS OFF
ME!” Her outburst was so fierce and intense that everyone at the busy scene
fell silent, all eyes looking to her. I knew it was coming the second I saw
Dante’s little arms reach into Sammi’s coat, hoping to have been wrapped around
her curved hips. Dante backed away, his hands and lips trembling. Sammi
collected herself and returned to that cold, unfeeling creature she always was,
telling Dante in one last chilling tone, “I don’t like to be hugged...ever.”
We watched her
turn ever so sharply and walk out through the front gates of the cemetery,
hands buried deep in her pockets and head held rigidly upright – the posture of
a woman too dignified to admit she has one hell of a stick up her butt. I then
looked away from her and to Dante, who had tears falling down his face. One
last time, I embraced him, allowing him to cry into the wool on the right
shoulder of my jacket. With a heavy sigh, I softly told him, “I’m so sorry,
hon. She’s a case of her own that needs fixing.”
Case
of the Weird and Wonderful
And now, the exclusive sneak peek of...
“Troopers to the
Conference Room immediately! We have an intrud...”
“Pause.”
Tarkin froze in
position the instant that Adrienne muttered the word, his finger still on the
com-link button. Vader’s body became rigid with surprise from this display of power
the woman possessed; it was nothing he had ever seen any Jedi (or Sith) do
before. Tarkin was legitimately still – his eyes not blinking, no part of his
body twitching whatsoever, and not even breathing. Yet, he was still alive in
some way that alluded Vader. His focus turned to Adrienne, who sat in the chair
at the conference table closest to Tarkin, her dirtied, knee-high, high-heeled
brown boots resting on the smooth, reflective surface of the table, leaving
traces of grime from the grunge-ridden soles.
Adrienne grinned.
“Don’t look so afraid, Vader.” She saw Vader’s head cock to the left curiously,
and her grin widened. “Yeah, despite your big, scary black breathing mask, I
can see your scared little face.” She pointed to her pale blue eyes that had a
piercing, intimidating glare in them. “I’ll admit that I’m not too fond of them
– not since this reincarnation started. They tend to scare everyone that passes
by, thinking I’m going to rip them a new one or something. But they have one of
millions and millions of special qualities...like x-ray vision.”
“What are you?”
Vader delivered the question that Adrienne heard him and Tarkin ask the many
times they attempted to kill her for what she knew about the Sphere.
His inquiry only
offended her. “Oh, don’t play dumb with me, you asthmatic ass! You’ve known for
a long time what I am. Our little
torture session...your curiosity in the Sphere...it all clued me into what’s really going on here.” She removed her
feet from the table and stood up at her full 5’5” height (she looked like a
small child compared to the towering half-man/half-machine character standing
across the table). “You’ve had contact with a sorceress masquerading around the
galaxy as something she’s not...just like me. She goes by the name ‘Dawn.’
Ringin’ a bell?”
Vader was silent
for a long moment. After a couple of short minutes, he confessed, “I was
approached by her during my first years as my master’s apprentice. I was
captivated by her astounding power...not only in the Force but...something
else.” His voice drifted as he reflected on these thoughts. It sounded to
Adrienne as if he were caught in a trance.
And that scared
her.
“She’s more of a
danger to you and the rest of the galaxy than the Sphere itself!”
“You know nothing
of them. They are the final solution for the galaxy.”
Adrienne gave an
amused snicker. “You know what’s so disturbing about what you just said? Your ‘final
solution’ sounds an awful lot like that of a mini-mustached dude who thought
the very same way the Emperor does...and both solutions lead to everyone dying – there is no victor!” She moved dangerously close to Vader, knowing that the
intensity in her address to him could lead to assault at any second. Of course,
knowing her capabilities, it would have been futile for him to make any sort of
attack. “Wake up to what you’re becoming, dammit!”
“And what am I becoming?”
“I know things
about your future that not even Yoda can see. It’s not as clouded as it’d seem,
not to a being like myself. Whether you choose to ditch the Sphere or not, it
doesn’t end well for you, man – believe me.”
“What do you know about me?” Vader’s tone
was defensive. He towered over Adrienne with fierce intimidation, forcing her
to answer.
Adrienne bit her lower lip, choosing
her words carefully. Events had already changed with the Sphere taking its
place in this universe. Heaven only knew what else could from what she said
next.
