Strega (Strega Series) (2 page)

From as far back as I could remember, even before I moved to Newburyport, I'd gone to Celia's shop with Gram. More often to chat with Celia and Ruth in the back room than to shop. As soon as Ruth stretched out her long, thin legs and rested her heels on the coffee table, I knew we were going to be there awhile. Celia would buzz around gathering plates and cups, and she'd slice a cake and make tea
—she always put an ice cube in mine. When the conversation was about to enter territory too mature for my little ears, Gram would send me up front to browse the candles and pick a new one to burn. As I smelled the incense and dried herbs from the sidewalk, I ached with these memories.

Downtown was so safe and familiar by day, crowded with visitors spending a leisurely day shopping and dining outside along the welcoming brick sidewalks. But all its charms were hidden under the blackness of night, and the streets filled with an eerie silence as I passed stacks of empty chairs outside each darkened window.

The last sliver of the waning moon had slipped away, and the towering streetlamps flickered as if weakened in its absence. The burgeoning sun of midday was long gone and the dark sky cast its shadow on me, threatening to swallow me whole. I thought of my car parked in Ruth's driveway, which seemed a million miles away. I walked that familiar stretch all the time, I reminded myself. It was no big deal. But never at night in complete darkness, my instincts boldly interrupted.

That night, those familiar roads seemed different somehow, almost foreign, and altogether strange. This strangeness, like a budding ember ignited in my consciousness, grew ever more compelling as it fumed against the walls of my mind, caged and desperate to escape. It was like a dream that you remember only vaguely, but that leans on each quivering nerve within you, making you long to bring forth every rousing detail. Whatever this strangeness was, it remained just out of reach, hovering below the surface continuing to provoke me but refusing to reveal itself.

***

At that hour, Sovana's was the last open establishment that I passed as the streets of Market Square crawled farther and farther away from the water. The smell of stale beer, sweat, and freshly baked bread boldly took over the street and mingled with the scent of wet asphalt. The thick wooden door was always propped open to let the billows of body heat escape. With it drifted the sound of scratchy Italian records and the grumblings of drunken patrons itching for a fistfight.

I was intimately familiar with the place. On top of my shifts at The Waterside, I worked as an intern at the Newburyport Press that summer. Journalism was one of my favorite classes, and an internship at the newspaper was great experience to include on my college applications. Though it was an unpaid job, I loved my assignments and it didn't even feel like work. One of my very first assignments was to write a local business feature article on Sovana's.

Even in Newburyport, a small haven with all the charm of an old New England town, steeped in history with its vintage colonial homes and brick buildings, Sovana's still stood out like an ancient relic. Surrounded by all the trendy shops that dominated the area, Sovana's possessed an old world flavor that drew me in. Signor Sovana opened the place decades ago soon after arriving from Italy. His niece Luciana had recently come to town and taken things over, allowing him to retire. In his early nineties, he was finally ready.

The old, wide-planked floorboards were worn. The sturdy bar and its mismatched stools proudly displayed the scars they'd earned over the years. In the more civilized corners of the place, Luciana, addressed by all as Signora Sovana, laid out her handmade tablecloths on a handful of old wooden tables and placed a small vase with a single flower at the center of each.

"Flowers bring balance," she said in her heavy European accent. She pointed her strong finger, thick and swollen from years of labor, toward her adoring patrons at the bar before letting out a heavy laugh. "Without it, these brutes would tear the place down!"

Signora Sovana hadn't been there long, but those brutes instantly loved her like she was their own
nonna
. She was just as bold as she was soft and gentle. Her build was strong and solid, and proportionally soft and round. She was a bit shorter than me, but her presence made up for it. Her hair was cut straight at her chin and almost fully black with only a few streaks of gray at her temple. I guessed her to be in her early sixties, about the same age as Gram.

Even after writing that first article for the paper, I returned to Sovana's often for Signora's amazing pesto dishes and her stories of life in Italy. She grew up in the remote northern mountains, but studied English in Rome. She spoke it so eloquently that, if not for her accent and the occasional insertion of an Italian
vocabolo
, I would have thought English to be her native tongue. We hadn't known each other long, but there was something about her that kept me coming back. And her face lit up each time I walked through the door.

The day of Gram's funeral, Ruth and Celia took me out for dinner. Right away, I suggested Sovana's. I was drawn to its comforts. It was broken in. Welcoming like an old home, with the scent of fresh garlic and herbs always wafting out from the kitchen. And Signora's warm, curative arms were there waiting for me.

My uneasiness grew as the familiar commotion of Sovana's faded to a distant hum behind me. One after the other, dark alleys that had always been benign suddenly threatened to suck me into their shadowy recesses. I weaved through the downtown streets past Brown Square and Town Hall, and made my way around the old inn on the corner and into the quiet neighborhood tucked behind the center of town. I followed the narrow brick sidewalks of Titcomb Street past the tightly packed houses, each with its own little fence of black wrought iron or white picket. Lush purple and pink hydrangeas lined the short little walkways to welcoming front doors. But all I could think about was the dreaded stretch that was still ahead of me. Before I reached Ruth's neighborhood, I had to cross through the park and pass the cemetery.

I dug through my purse and pulled out my phone to call Shaun. I'd canceled our plans for the night when I took Rena's shift. I'd half-expected him to show up at The Waterside since he knew I was stuck there all night, but he didn't.

I'd been seeing Shaun for a couple of months. He came to town late spring, just as the school year ended. I first met him at The Waterside shortly after I switched to my summer schedule. Gram never got to meet him.

Every morning at eight o'clock, he'd come in and sit at the corner table, and browse through the New York Times or thumb at his phone. He'd always order a cup of coffee, but whenever I came by with a fresh pot, his cup was untouched.

Shaun was handsome. Almost too handsome. His face was perfect, sort of like a male model that needs to get punched and roughed up a little. But he was not pretentious at all. He was completely unaware that all around him, girls were swooning. He was serious, contemplative, and his introversion intrigued me. And when he looked up at me with those striking, alluring eyes, within them I saw a mystery that stirred my curiosities.

The phone rang for the fourth time and went into voicemail. I hung up and called again. When he still didn't answer, I waited for the beep.

"Hi Shaun, it's me. I'm on my way home from work...I didn't drive in so I'm stuck walking. No big deal, I'm fine...I'm just a little freaked out. Give me a call if you're around. Maybe you could come pick me up?"

I hung up and saw that I had a voicemail message. It was Shaun.

"Hi Jay, it's me. It's about six o'clock. I know it's last minute but I'm heading down the coast for a few days with my uncle. The boat is gassed up and we're about to leave the marina. Call me back if you get this in the next few minutes, before I lose reception. Otherwise, I'll call as soon as we dock. Maybe we can make up for dinner when I get back? Okay, cutie. See you soon."

Shaun regularly disappeared without much warning. Living on a boat with his uncle all summer made it easy to bail at a moment's notice, and the never-idle waters seemed to wash away any sense of permanence he may have otherwise had.

"Damn it," I mumbled to myself. There was nobody else I could call. Ruth and Jack were away. Celia was already in bed, and the situation didn't warrant waking her. I'd been avoiding my friends from school all summer, so I couldn't call them for a favor now. Rena was the only person I could call, but she was all the way in Rowley at Max's apartment, surely fast asleep after spending half the day at the hospital with him. I considered calling a taxi, but I was only a mile away from home and I couldn't admit to myself that I was so desperate.

My attention returned to the creepiness that had settled in while I was distracted on the phone. I took a deep breath and trudged on. From behind me, the sound of an approaching car interrupted the growing silence. At first I was comforted by its presence, imagining that it might scare away predators lurking in the shadows. But darker thoughts crept in as I considered what danger it might bring to a young woman walking alone down an empty street at night. These conflicting thoughts ebbed and flowed, crashing within me like giant waves on a stormy sea, until the car wheels cut through giant puddles in the street beside me and continued on past. The humming engine was only a whisper as the car grew more distant, and suddenly I longed for it to return and insulate me from solitude. I was alone again and the deafening squeak of my shoes against the damp pavement reemerged.

I gripped my keys to point through my fingers like little daggers, just as Gram instructed me to do in such anxiety-provoking situations. Despite the coolness of the night, my tense body radiated so much heat that I had to unbutton my jacket to let it out.

My hearing sharpened to that of a wild animal, acutely aware of every acorn that fell against the pavement, every branch that cracked overhead, every rodent that scratched through the brush beyond the trees and stone walls. But it was a new sound that sent a wave of terror through me like a bullet. Another set of footsteps, heavy with a long stride, emerged behind me. They belonged to someone that was clearly taller than me, bigger than me, and moving in my direction.

My pulse quickened along with my pace.

It's just a dream. It's not real.

Maybe it was a burly football player stumbling home from Sovana's after a pitcher of beer, I thought to myself. But the footsteps were too neat, too determined. Maybe he worked at the Inn and his shift just ended, I tried to reassure myself. But the terror didn't leave me no matter what I told myself. I crossed the street with determination and made my way toward the park. Walking around it would add another ten minutes. Cutting through it like I always did would get me home much faster. But at that hour, its seemingly impenetrable darkness was intimidating.

I'm being ridiculous
.
It is just a dream. It's not real.

I continued to force rational thoughts into my mind, attempting to douse the flames of fear that threatened to consume me. But these thoughts were like tiny drops of water against an inferno. As hard as I tried to resist, as much as I tried to ignore it, my dream replayed in my mind.

He is coming. I am running for my life. Knowing that I will lose.

When the dream came back just after Gram died, it still felt as real to me as it did when I was a child. But I knew it wasn't. I understood this better than I ever could as a kid. Still, no amount of reason comforted me. I felt like I was seven again. Petrified. And though I now had the ability to distinguish dream from reality, my terror grew as if there was no difference between the two.

By day, the park sat like a deep bowl of green grass. At the bottom was a small pond, usually surrounded by people lounging on blankets. Ducks nestled in the grass or waddled to the water's edge, and children ran to catch them. But at night the park was a deep black hollow. The heavy clouds hid the stars, and the new moon cast no light on the water. I wanted more than anything to just get home. I drew in a deep breath and took my first step into the park, descending into the darkness from the rim. The momentum of the downhill slope pushed me into a light jog. The footsteps, still steady behind me, were crossing the street toward the park. I still hoped to hear them fade as they moved in another direction. But they grew louder and quickened until they reached the rim, and then they entered the park.

Adrenaline erupted into my veins. Sweat soaked my hands and feet, and soon my whole body was on fire. My neck throbbed with each violent heartbeat that pounded in my chest. I was stuck at the bottom, only halfway through the park and in too deep to turn back. If he caught up to me before I got out, nobody would hear me scream.

I began to run. I was fast. If anyone could outrun him, it would be me. I drew in long, deep breaths as I held onto this small fragment of confidence and scaled the hill. But to my horror, his footsteps accelerated behind me to a pace faster than my own. The gap between us was closing and I felt every lost inch.

This is exactly like my dream
.

When I finally reached the outer rim, I sprang off the sidewalk and tore across the empty street, praying for a car to come into view. With one long stride, I rounded the corner at the Old Hill Burying Ground. The foreboding gravestones beckoned me as I passed, and the ominous footsteps persisted. Just like in my dream, I felt a dark hole of doom whirling behind me. It grew ever closer, and I knew that at any moment it would catch me and swallow me whole.