I'll Be Damned (Anna Wolfe Series)

I'll Be Damned

Book 1 of the Anna Wolfe Series

Casey Keen

Published by Nevermore Press

Cincinnati, OH 45224. 2013

Text Copyright © 2013 Casey Keen

All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it i
s
published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Copyright © 2013 Nevermore Press

All rights reserved

Published by

Nevermore Press.

Cincinnati, OH 45224

Edited by: Teri, at Editing Fairy

For Nevermore Press

Cover by: Jenna DeVries

Formatting by: Brandy Dull

For details, please visit
www.caseykeen.com

Printed in the United States of America

Acknowledgements:

To my friends and family

who believed in me:

Thank you!

To my
Editor, Teri, at Editing Fairy:

Awesome editing job!

To Jenna DeVries, Graphic Designer:

Thank you for your amazing

talents in helping me create my cover...
Truly genius!

It happens practically every night. My pleasant dreams take on a life of their own, morphing into terrifying nightmares. They are the tsunamis of the dream ocean, spinning me in their churning tides before thrusting me awake, whereupon I find myself drenched in a pool of sweat, and gasping for air. Abandoning my worry isn’t an option since a demonic element is the driving force behind them. It sounds crazy, but even as a child, a special darkness visited me in my dreams. Is it a warning? Or a threat? Your guess is as good as mine.

They always began the exact same way - I'
m being hurled into a pitch-black hole of nothingness. I open my sleepy eyes, allowing them time to adjust. Isolation surrounds me, reminding me how unprepared I am for this place. A dim, orange light cuts through the dark abyss like a blade. I squint, realizing it’s much further than it appears. I attempt to move my feet, but they stubbornly refuse. I try a second time, and manage to overcome the terror that is binding them. One step becomes two and I find myself walking at a cautious pace, listening for the faintest sound. I haven’t the slightest idea where I am, which makes me suspicious of everything. My nose wrinkles as I walk through a large pocket of air that reeks with an overpowering odor of burnt hair. I swing and wave my hands, hoping to break up the stench, but to no avail. What could be the source of such a rank smell? I’m not sure I want to know the answer. I quickly push the thought away. Curiosity can be dangerous when it comes between reality and panic.

I tread delicately, hoping no one hears me. I don’t think I'm alone, and I find some comfort in the darkness. Whatever is with me is out of my sight, and therefore, out of my mind. I never thought I would find a cliché so helpful to me until now. I wrap my thoughts around it, mustering up the courage to carry on. The orange light grows, compelling me to pick up my pace. I glance at my surroundings, unsure of what I might find. The curved, dank walls and concrete blocks beneath my feet are bare, but fortunately, no revolting creatures dangle from the ceiling or slither past my feet, although I am thinking of them! Where the hell am I? Dreams have a funny way of camouflaging life’s problems, but this is ridiculous!

A glint of light from the ashen wall catches my eye. I step closer to it, noticing how the curved cobbles gently mold my feet to their shapes. Small, rectangular stones that suggest their age goes well beyond the medieval era are arrayed in front of me. A dense tackiness catches the small granules of little dust motes that are reflected by the light here. Some kind of liquid begins to seep from one of the cracks in the stones, and I lower my head to inspect it. The crimson liquid slides sluggishly, like a snail, towards the ground. Leaning closer, I realize I’m staring at blood, and I gasp, jumping backwards. My heart thuds loudly in my chest as my adrenaline speeds through my veins like a racecar. My eyes skip around, noticing thousands of little red capillaries materializing all over the wall. An overwhelming paranoia that the tunnel will cave in torments my mind. I turn and dash towards the light, fueled by my distress. My lungs scream for air as I push myself further and faster than ever.

The orange light surrounds a large opening. Skidding to a stop, I barely avoid falling over the ledge at the cave’s entrance. I stare out at a fiery, scarlet landscape that appears infinite, and sends me a menacing warning. I lean forward when a wall of intense heat slugs me in the face, forcing me backwards a few inches. The air is dense, and it’s hard to catch my breath. Sweat beads on my brow, evaporating before I can wipe it away. I scan the ravaged scenery, watching pillars of fire erupt from the ground before disappearing into the onyx sky, rimmed in red. A chain of mountains with jagged cliffs, emerge straight up from the bloodshot dirt. Floating objects I don’t wish to know about, travel in an orbit, weaving in and out through the rough terrain. I’m in a completely different world. My terror lingers, refusing to go away. A raging river of lava slices through the valley, determined to leave its own mark in the middle of this inferno. I stroll down a steep trail that leads directly to the unusual river. I stop long before reaching its banks, and gradually inch my way closer. My eyes drift over to the whirling mass of disturbing beauty. Deep shades of red and orange mesh with each other, creating a horrid kaleidoscope of angry colors. Flashes of distorted images of my family and friends bob in and out of the blazing lava. I watch in horror as the greedy river of fire consumes them without remorse. Despite my attempts to reach in, my hand snaps back after feeling the agonizing heat. I step backwards, staring in numb bewilderment. I know I’m dreaming, but it doesn’t lessen my anxiety. My back slams into something solid and unyielding. Long, crooked fingers wrap around the tops of my tiny shoulders like spiders. Suffering and emptiness engulf me. My heart pounds like a hammer as my limbs melt into rubber. The hands squeeze me hard, sending excruciating pain throughout my entire back. The snapping of my shoulders, cracking like glass, shatters the unbearable stillness. As soon as I open my mouth to scream… Poof! I wake up. No rhyme or reason for it.

***

My name is Anna Wolfe. Growing up, I accepted my uniqueness as an individual early on. My distinctive qualities first emerged around the age of two. It wasn’t anything simple, like wearing Coke-bottle glasses or spending school dances banished in the corner of a room. I was known as the girl who had something abnormal residing inside her… a stranger of sorts. The more I acknowledged its existence, the more different it made me feel. It was a very gratifying feeling, the same as anger or sadness that needs to be expressed when provoked. My invisible traveler usually occupied itself, and remained unnoticed in my life. However, if I came in contact with anyone, they immediately saw my abnormality. How? Well, let’s just say they sensed it like dogs. Dogs often bark at nothing visible to a human, but all the while see or smell something there.

Sometimes, strange things would happen to the people who teased me. And if I concentrated hard enough, I could move objects with my mind. I was convinced I must be developing a mental disorder. After all, hallucinations fall within the top ten bullet points for diagnosing schizophrenia. Friends avoided me, fearing I would freak out or go mental, whatever that meant. Soon, I became the most talked about weirdo in my class. This all came to a head one day, when I shattered the eighth grade English classroom windows. Some of my classmates were ruthlessly teasing me with their onslaught of punishing names. That was the day I crossed the invisible line between weirdo and real-life, freaky witch. I don’t know which was worse, being ostracized as a nerd, or having people justifiably scared of me as a supernatural. Growing up is one of the hardest things for anyone to do in life; but mine seemed even harder. 

***

Fast forward sixteen years. It's the end of May in Savannah, Georgia and I’m with my family, waiting to be seated for dinner at The Olde Pink House. Although I love this restaurant, I’m not looking forward to the next few torturous hours. I sigh, hoping the conversations won’t be overly boring or crass. I attempt to squeeze my thoughts into an optimistic frame of mind, but lately, it’s been awfully difficult.
They’re only visiting, Anna,
I remind myself. I should be thankful that our dinners are far from customary, considering how little I see my family. I moved to Savannah five years ago and fell in love with two things: a man and this bewitching city. The man didn’t work out; and abandoning the city that built itself a home in my heart wasn’t an option.

The skinny hostess, wearing a form-fitted, eggplant-colored dress, saunters over, motioning for us to follow her with a backward wave. Her burgundy hair really pops out against the purple dress clinging to her body like static electricity. She escorts us into a spacious room, with a fireplace bigger than the room’s doorway. The walls are a deep navy, reminiscent of the colonial era. Swirling with bold lines, the decorative crown molding embellishes the otherwise drab porcelain white ceiling. The hostess stops in front of a long table, elegantly draped in white and gold linens, which imbue it with a slight air of pretentiousness. With a smooth sweep of her arm, she gestures for us to sit. She hasn’t uttered one word, which I find odd. Normally, any hostess with the mostest would brown-nose the patrons. Apparently, she doesn’t care about winning the Employee of the Month’s parking spot. She glares at me as if she hears what I am thinking. We lock eyes, and just as she quickly, she turns away, noticeably distressed. I shrug, well accustomed to her reaction as well as that of most strangers.

We find our seats, and conversation immediately animates the table. Cara, my younger sister, manages to steamroll all topics until only her wedding is being discussed. She’s getting married in a few months, so the repetitive preparation plans that ensue are hell. Her fiancé, Mike, just sits and smiles, totally unaware of the demanding woman he’s about to pledge his life too. She’s hell-bent on having the wedding at Forsyt
h
Park, with the reception in the very place we’re sitting now. That’s if they don’t call off their wedding for the third time. I steal a glimpse of everyone at the table, observing somber expressions. No one looks interested and who can blame them? Janie, my older sister, rolls her eyes when she hears Cara mention the song she wants playing when she walks down the aisle. Cara continues to spew her recurring wedding details, attempting to hide them in different strings of sentences. Her wordplay is tiresome and elementary. I elbow Janie, and reveal my disinterest with a smirk. She tilts her head, trying to hide a playful grin. Cara hates it when anyone ignores her while she’s speaking.