Danita Blake bid me goodnight when I left. I felt her eyes follow me home, and I was still shuddering hours later...
I paused in my typing, read over the last few paragraphs. "John?" I called into the next room. "Is it too cliche to describe the murderer's "cold, dead eyes"?"
My husband came into my office and read the computer screen.
"...Eh, it's a bit overdone," he said after a moment's thought. "Try talking about the expression instead."
I shrugged and nodded. He said something else, but I was already planning the next scene when he left the room.
***
The next day, I was taking my 10-year-old to the bus stop when one of the other neighborhood moms pulled me into the greenery.
"We have a new neighbor!" Jenny gushed. "Just moved in last night, apparently she's a single lawyer who's just joined a law firm nearby."
I raised my eyebrows, waved reassuringly at the kids who peered at us through the bushes. "You realize that that's the second-most common profession of serial killers?" I was teasing, but it was true; in fact, that was the job I'd assigned to the antagonist of my murder mystery.
Jenny rolled her eyes at me. "Come on! There's a new girl in the neighborhood, we should celebrate!"
"Just invite her to the book club! Or bring her cookies!" I blinked and jumped quickly out of the bushes as the bus turned onto the street. "Wait, Charlie, don't go on the bus with your hair like that..." I accosted my son and licked my hand surreptitiously, trying desperately to smooth a cowlick that had escaped my attention earlier.
"So, what's her name?" I asked Jenny later, after the kids had boarded.
"Oh, it's... Danita," she said, peering after the bus. "Danita Blake."
***
For the rest of the week, I was paranoid. A friend's mention of a missing garden hose made me think of the improvised garrote in my novel. A "Lost Dog" sign reminded me of how, before the murder, all the characters' dogs began to disappear. Once, when walking by the newly-bought house, I saw a familiar black convertible in the driveway and blinked rapidly several times before hurrying away, shaking my head. I kept to my writing schedule, but each new scene added to my sense of foreboding.
I didn't see my new neighbor until the neighborhood block party.
The thing about this particular block party, of course, is that it inspired the one in my novel. When notices from the HOA started popping up, I had been struck by the thought that it would be the perfect scene for my novel. Dark, noisy, and a crowd to get lost in...
But I never really made the connection between the block party and the mysterious Danita Blake until the night of the event. Jenny and the other book club girls had found out that I still hadn't met our new neighbor, and so they dragged me over to her when the night was still young.
I don't know what I had been expecting... but no, I hadn't expected this. For all my forays into the fantastic as a novelist, I hadn't genuinely believed that there was something to be worried about.
But Danita Blake had jet-black hair in a pixie cut. Danita Blake had eyes the gray of a cloudy sky, and a nose that was just a fraction straighter than ordinary. Danita Blake had immaculately groomed eyebrows, fingernails painted scarlet, and buckled boots that reached her knees. Danita Blake wore earrings shaped like roses, and there were diamonds glinting in the center.
...I knew those earrings. I knew those boots. I knew this woman.
I knew, and even as disbelief gripped me, I felt my knees start to shake. Because every aspect of Danita Blake, every expression that crossed her face, I had described in detail weeks before. I'd described my Danita Blake, the character. And somehow this Danita Blake was exactly the same. In every way.
My knees shook, my breath caught, and one thought stuck in my mind. Repeated like a broken record.
My Danita Blake had been a serial killer. Was this one?
***
I made my way to stand alone by the food. Images flashed through my head: sirens, screams, a corpse... all images that I'd blithely described just days ago. Despite the delicious food next to me, I suddenly felt like throwing up, imagining what I'd written as the aftermath of that fictional block party.
This is crazy, I thought to myself. That's a book, not real life! You're being paranoid, this isn't real, there's nothing to be worried about...
My husband came over and wrapped his arms around me. "You look frazzled," he said, poking me in the ribs slightly. "Did you work yourself too hard today?"
I melted into his embrace, only slightly put out. "You're supposed to tell me I look beautiful," I muttered defensively. Then, louder, "Maybe I did work too hard today... Um. Does that girl over there look like a serial killer to you?"
John laughed uproariously, and then incredulously when he realized that I was serious. "Honey, you've spent too much time writing. Relax, have some food!" Then he added, when he saw I wasn't reassured, "Or if you're really stressed out, maybe you should go to bed early tonight. I can watch the kids for you if you want."
I took a deep breath, and then another. "Ok," I said faintly. And then, "Ok, I think I will... You're sure there's nothing suspicious about her?"
He rolled his eyes and gave me a little shove. "Bed. And don't start working on your novel again--it's driving you crazy!"
So I left the block party early that night. The kids protested, my friends needled, but I laughed it off weakly. I said I needed to catch up on sleep.
Danita Blake bid me goodnight when I left. I felt her eyes follow me home, and I was still shuddering hours later...
******************************************************************
That's all! Fair note, I spent about two hours writing this, but it was off and on while I was watching the... umm... Late Night Jimmy Falon show? I thought it was Saturday Night Live for the first hour or so. Mainly because it's Saturday night, and that's the only comedy show that I've ever really heard of.
Anyway, for our first prompt I looked at Writer'sDigest.com to try and find a good prompt, and Mom and I agreed on this one:
You’ve written a novel with a character that eventually murders one of his or her neighbors. Suddenly, a new person moves into your neighborhood with the same name as your character. Looks similar too. In fact, you can’t help but notice this new neighbor is doing several of the same things as your character—including laying the groundwork to murder someone. You decide to follow this person because, if all holds true to your plot, you know what’s going to happen. Write this scene.
(I didn't follow it exactly, by the way.)
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