First Comes Love, Then Comes Lilith

     I could already tell it was going to be a bad day. 

     I’d roused at four a.m. to the high-pitched cackle of the Wicked Witch of the West.  Dave, my boyfriend, had gotten hold of my cell phone several days ago, downloaded the ringtone as a joke, and I had yet to figure out how to change it.  The caller had been Gwyneth, one of my regular clients, begging me to meet for breakfast in a 24-hour bagel shop one street over from the office. 

     It didn’t seem to matter to Gwyneth that we were noshing on cinnamon bagels with cream cheese before the sun was even up.  Bleary-eyed and bed-headed, the cashier had to ring up the order three times before he got it right.  The only other customer was a homeless-looking fellow with stringy gray hair and a shopping bag full of old clothes, nursing a cup of cold coffee and scanning the Jobs section of the newspaper.   

     “Couldn’t we have done this during your regular Thursday appointment?” I murmured, barely suppressing an eye-roll/yawn combo that I knew probably made me look like a morphing werewolf.  Gwyneth was well-known around the office as a D.Q. of infinite proportions, albeit a likeable one, and she knew how to get under my skin.  All she’d had to do on the phone was utter the name ‘Geoffrey’ and I’d come running. 

     Gwyneth ran one ridiculously long purple fingernail around the rim of her double-latte.  “By Thursday, if you don’t help me fix this, I’ll either be dead or sucked into the demon dimension.”  Her lipsticked mouth quivered poutily. 

     Ignoring the thinly-veiled threat, I sighed.  “Tell me again what he said.”

     “You mean Geoffrey?”                                                           

     “Yes, Geoffrey,” I snapped.  “Your chief Warlock, or whatever he is.”

     “He said if I didn’t give him my love potion he was going to tell Frank about Mortimer.”  She blew a tendril of silky black hair out of her face in exasperation. 

     “The guy you’ve been seeing behind Frank’s back.”

     “Yeah.  But I can’t give him the potion.  It’s not written down.  It’s all in my head, and it’s mine.  Anyway, it wouldn’t work for him.  He’s a warlock.”

     “Did you tell him that?”

     “Only a thousand times.  Warlocks never listen.”

     Suddenly I had a thought.  “You didn’t use your potion on Mortimer, did you?”

     The witch’s body stiffened visibly.  “Of course not.  Don’t be ridiculous.”  Her eyes flicked to the left, indicating she was lying. 

     I let out another sigh.  “Oh, Gwyn, you always say you want to be more ordinary—‘live more like a regular human’ I think is the way you put it—and then you tamper with one of the most beautiful, natural things in the universe.  Love can’t be bought with a potion, sweetie.”  I felt my therapist training kicking in, despite the earliness of the hour and my body’s urgent need to retreat to a horizontal position for at least another couple of hours.  “You’re manipulating Mortimer the same way Geoffrey’s manipulating you.”

     Gwyneth laughed.  Not quite a cackle, but close.  The homeless man’s head swiveled around to stare at us.  “That’s rich.  Geoffrey’s also threatening me with Lilith if I don’t give him the potion.  Can you believe it?  He hates Lilith.”

     If there was ever a classic love-hate relationship, it was the one between Geoffrey and Gwyneth.  As chief Warlock of the greater Phoenix area, Geoffrey had ties to Gwyneth’s coven.  He’d dated at least half the witches there and helped most of them out of one jam or another over the years.  (From what I could tell, witches were notorious for getting themselves into sticky situations.)  He was mostly a good guy.  Okay, his yellow cat-eyes were slightly unnerving, but he had a gorgeous smile.  The only times he acted irrationally—sometimes violently—were the times when he felt someone had crossed him. 

     “You know what happens when you get sucked into Lilith’s realm?” Gwyn asked casually, nibbling one of her fingernails.  “Bite marks.”

     “Bite marks?”

     “All over,” she said, running her hands over the length of her well-kept physique.  “Lilith bites her…subjects.”

     I sighed.  Half the time I didn’t know what to believe.  “You need to talk to him, Gwyn.”

     “I—”

     I held my hand out.  “He cares about you, Gwyn.  Remember that time he helped you draw that protection circle around your house?  When your ex got out of jail and was on the rampage?”

     “Yeah, Geoffrey was actually pretty great then.  He stayed with me all night while Tippy stood outside, yelling and screaming and throwing things.  We watched True Blood reruns and ate four frozen pizzas.”

     I’d heard the story.  It still seemed a little cold-blooded that Gwyn wouldn’t at least hear her ex out.  Granted, Tippy’d been as drunk as a skunk and was back in jail by morning, courtesy of the Phoenix police department.  “Or that time Sadie used that deep voice potion on Frank and he thought she was your dad on the phone?  She practically had him peeing his pants in fear.”

     Gwyneth cackled again, remembering.  “And Geoffrey reprimanded Sadie.  Told her she was breaking the Wiccan Rede.  She had to go to his cabin in Vail for three days, basically under house arrest, although I didn’t really see it as punishment at the time.  Still don’t.  I mean, Vail?  C’mon.”

     “The point is, Gwyn, Geoffrey is not going to send you back to Lilith.  He’s not cruel.”

     Gwyn seemed unconvinced.  “He really wants that love potion.  And if he tells Frank about Mortimer, I might as well move back to New Jersey.  You thought Tippy was bad?  Frank’ll kill me.”

     “Who would you rather have trying to kill you,” I persisted, “a lazy human who can barely get off the couch to make his own sandwich, or a half-insane Warlock who’s made deals with demons and killed at least three people—”

     “—that I know of—”

     “—in order to get his job?”

     Gwyn dug her palms into her eyes in frustration.  Her heavy makeup was already smeared, and her hands were shaking. 

     I pulled one of her hands away from her face and brought it down to the table, squeezing with affection.  Even though Gwyn drove me bonkers on a near-weekly basis, I still considered her my friend.  “And if your love potion isn’t going to work for Geoffrey anyway, then what’s the big deal?”

     A light came on in her eyes.  She smiled.  “You’re right, of course, as usual, Meredith.”  She leaned over her bagel and kissed me on the cheek.

          I was just coming out of my office on Thursday, starting a beeline for the fridge for some serious foraging, when Gwyn flew at me from out of nowhere. 

     “Your appointment’s not until three, Gwyn,” I reminded her, glancing at my watch. 

     “Yeah, I know, but I really need to talk to you, Meri.”

     “I’m on break right now.  Come back at three,” I insisted.  Stubbornly, I eyed the fridge. 

     “Everything okay, Meredith?” Norm asked, coming out his door, trailed by the sloping figure of T.J. Vanderschmidt.  T.J. was another regular client in our office, a vampire who spent his nights writing pulp-fiction and seemed to have no friends.  Social anxiety was the official diagnosis.  Norm insisted T.J. was a good guy, but whenever I tried to engage him in the usual conversation, he never made eye contact.  His red-rimmed peepers always hovered disconcertingly over my neck area.  He usually answered my (I thought) engaging questions with barely audible groans.

     “Just reminding Gwyn of her scheduled appointment time.”

     “And how is the lovely Lady Gwyneth today?” Norm asked, kissing Gwyn’s hand.  He always laid it on thick with the better-looking female clients, although he had no interest in the trolls, with their misshapen heads and squashed, bulbous noses, or the fairies, with their peculiar, pointed features.  At least he had some standards. 

     “Horrible,” Gwyn admitted.  “And Meri’s more interested in stuffing her face than helping me,” she added, reading my mind.  She gave a half-hearted wave at T.J. as he shuffled off to the front desk.

     Norm was technically my boss here, since he recruited me originally, but all five of us were equal partners in the business.  Norm handled anxiety and bipolar disorders, Micah handled alcohol and substance abuse, Veronica handled the pervs, and Tyrone handled eating disorders and depression.  I dealt with pretty much everything else, which mostly amounted to marriage and grief counseling, trauma and PTSD, that kind of thing. 

     Now Norm gave me a raised eyebrow, his idea of a performance reprimand.  “Client first, ice cream later, Meri…” he intoned in a sing-song warning.

     I gave him an eye-roll, an expression I’d perfected over the years of working here.  Grabbing Gwyn’s hand, I dragged her over to the battered fridge and opened the freezer compartment.  “How about some Ben and Jerry’s Cheesecake Brownie, Gwynnie?”

     After finding a couple of plastic spoons, we went back to my office, where I slammed the door in Norm’s face for good measure.  Gwyn plopped herself down on my sagging couch and stared moodily at the ceiling. 

     I took my customary spot in the armchair next to her, kicking up my feet on the coffee table and digging into my ice cream.  The pleasure center of my brain fired off virtual exclamation points as my taste buds did their two p.m. happy dance. 

     “I can’t believe this is your job,” Gwyn said accusatorily.  She once worked as a playground aide and she’d come to her sessions bruised, battered and highly sensitized to the shrillness of small voices.  We’d spent two months honing her negotiation skills. 

     “I have to do paperwork too,” I reminded her. 

     She made sudden eye contact.  “You don’t keep a record of anything we say, do you?  I wouldn’t want that.  Our conversations should be confidential.”

     “Nothing like that,” I assured her.

     “Good.”  She went back to staring at the ceiling. 

     “Aren’t you going to eat your ice cream?”

     “Men are such insensitive Neanderthals.”

     Which one are we talking about today? I wondered vaguely, but my near-frozen tongue and the sugar-induced haze combined to make it difficult to speak. 

     “I’m talking about Mortimer, in case you care,” she snaps grumpily.  “He says he needs more space.  He’s thinking about taking a camping trip.  A boys-only vacation with some of his buddies.”

     Mortimer was a lycanthrope, and I knew for a fact that the full moon was right around the corner.  I wondered what that vacation would look like.  Gallumphing around the forest with his werewolf friends, howling at the moon and ripping the heads off of squirrels, no doubt.

     “My best advice is to let him go.  Let him enjoy himself,” I said.  I was almost halfway through my tiny carton of ice cream now, and the chunks of cheesecake brownie were getting thick.  Trying to focus, un-sticking my tongue, I added, “Then, when Mortimer gets back, tell him you want to go to Florida.  Stay somewhere really posh.  Like the Breakers.  Or the Edgewater.  Plan it all out ahead of time, buy the plane tickets, everything.  Really treat him.  He’ll never want to go camping again.”

     “I can’t afford that.”

     “You have your parents’ money.  You know, the trust fund?”

     “Daddy would kill me if I used it so frivolously.”

     “Your father’s ninety-two and lives in a nursing home.  He barely speaks.  How’s he going to know?”

     “It just seems so disrespectful.”  Her ice cream was starting to drip. 

     “If you want to save your relationship, sometimes you have to be willing to make sacrifices,” I intoned.  “Anyway, what about Frank?  Have you broken up with him yet?”  Breaking up with Frank was one of the goals we had set for her last week.

     “He hasn’t invited me over to watch TV in a while.  I think he might be mad at me.”  I knew from previous conversations that Frank was the one currently paying Gwyneth’s mortgage, a situation she was reluctant to meddle with. 

     “You really need to come clean with him, Gwyn.”

     “I don’t pay you to tell me how to live my life,” she retorted, even though she and I both knew that was exactly what she was paying me for. 

       I sighed, scraping the bottom of my carton.  “Are you going to eat that? Because if not—”

     She slammed her carton down on the coffee table and slid it over with one hand.  “So I take Mortimer on the trip of a lifetime.  Maybe he’ll ask me to marry him if I play my cards right.”

     “You sure you want to do that?” From what I gathered, inter-species marriage was usually frowned on by most covens.  And Gwyn would have to steer clear of Mortimer every full moon.  It would be inconvenient, to say the least. 

     But Gwyn wasn’t listening to me anymore.  She had that gleam in her eye again.  “Yeah, I’m sure.” 

     I started in on her ice cream.  Even though it was melted, I found myself practically swooning.  Glancing at the calorie count on the back of the carton, I realized I needed to get myself a life.  Or better yet, a treadmill.  “What about that thing with Geoffrey?  Did you give him what he wanted?”

     “My love potion?” she cackles.  “Sure did.  He was so smug about it, too.  But it’s not gonna take him long to realize it doesn’t work for him.  Whoever he thinks he’s got on his hook is never gonna get reeled in.”

     “Will he be angry?”

     “Probably.  But then maybe he’ll listen.  If not, I’ll just get Mortimer to deal with him.” 

     There she went, playing her men against each other, as usual.  Who would win?  In a fight between a fangy werewolf and an all-powerful, demon-slaying Warlock, I was pretty sure I knew. 

     “Just be careful, Gwynnie,” I said, reaching out for her limp hand on the coffee table.  “You know how Geoffrey gets.”

     Two weeks later I was just leaving the office when my phone rang.  Or should I say, it cackled at me, because I still hadn’t changed my ringtone.  The other counselors had already left, except for Tyrone, who often stayed late.  He was still leading his vampire Overdrinkers Anonymous group, and their eerie chants—“I will not overindulge in the delights of the flesh”—were giving me the creeps. 

     “Hello, who’s this?”

     “It’s Gwyn.”  Her voice sounded panicked.  “Remember that little vacation you suggested I take with Mortimer?”

     “Yeah?  What—”

     “Bad idea!  Very BAAD idea!” she shrieked.  In the background I heard the sound of glass breaking. 

     “What’s going on?”

     “Well, we’re at this nice little out-of-the way Bed and Breakfast, relaxing by the pool, when guess who shows up?”

     “Frank?”

     “No, Meri.  Not Frank.  It’s Geoffrey, and he’s wringing Mortimer out like one of those bathroom sponges!”

     “They’re fighting?  But why?”

     “Not fighting.  Geoffrey’s trying to kill him!”  More crashing, splashing, yelling.

     I thought fast.  “Can’t Mortimer just turn into a werewolf and defend himself at least?  Where’s the manager?”

     “They all bolted as soon as they saw Geoffrey.  He was throwing sparks and snarling like a rabid pit bull.  Then he threw open a portal and—”

     Oh no.  Not a portal.  “A portal to where?”

     “Heck if I know!  To Andras, maybe?  Geoffrey used to be friends with him.  Or Lilith.  He seems to have a thing for her.  Anyway, it’s not the full moon until tonight!  Mortimer’s transformation phase is very time-sensitive.  Please, Meri!  Tell me what to do!”  Now I could hear the swirling power of the portal, a conduit to the deepest depths of hell. 

     Good grief.  This was way above my pay grade.  “You have to try to stop him, Gwyn.  Use one of your tricks.  That’s what you do, right?  Some sort of blabbing spell.  Make him talk.  Find out why he’s so mad at Mortimer.  Make them call a truce.  Or the love of your life is going to get sucked into oblivion!”

     In the background, the whirling noise grew louder.  CRASH!  BANG!  Then, with a terrific POP, Gwyn’s phone went dead. 

     It was three weeks before I saw Gwyn again.  I hadn’t heard a peep from her and had almost written her off.  Now here she was, coming out of Zales at the mall.  She seemed to be practically floating with happiness, dressed in a crimson high-necked blouse that covered much more of her flesh than usual. 

     “Meri!” she cried, throwing herself at me with her trademark over-the-top enthusiasm.  Hugging me tightly, she seemed unaware that people were stopping to stare. 

     “I thought you were dead,” I said numbly. 

     That cackle again.  “You’re such a kidder!  I’ve been busy, to say the least, and I…well…I guess I won’t be needing your services anymore.”

     “You’re dumping me?”

     “Just as my shrink.  Not as a friend, of course.”

     I stood there, flabbergasted.  How could she do this to me?  I’d become so invested in Gwyn’s day-to-day emotional upheavals that I’d never stopped to consider she might actually outgrow her need for me. 

     Then I saw him coming out of Zales behind her, carrying a tiny bag, grinning widely with his small, pointy teeth. 

     “Geoffrey,” I said warily.  Immediately I was captivated by that golden catlike stare.

     “Meredith,” he nodded.  Handing the bag to Gwyn, one arm encircled her waist possessively. 

     “You’ll never guess what we just did, Meri!” Gwyn chimed in, blushing as Geoffrey planted a kiss on her cheek. 

     Dumbfounded, I watched as she pulled a tiny velvet box from the bag and opened it to show me.  “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

     A gargantuan diamond ring, the kind that says—doesn’t ask—MARRY ME.

     Glancing back at Geoffrey, I suddenly realized why he’d wanted Gwyn’s love potion.  A self-satisfied smirk was plastered across his feline face. 

     “Uhh…just for the record, what happened to Mortimer?”

     “Who?” the two of them asked in unison.  The mall echoed with Gwyn’s cackles.  Geoffrey’s mesmerizing eyes held mine in their amber glow, challenging me. 

     That’s when I saw the collar of Gwyn’s blouse shift slightly, revealing several round abrasions decorating the delicate pale skin beneath. 

     Puffy, raised bite marks still tinged pink with blood.      

    

Prompt #1: Novel Character Comes to Life--And May Murder Someone

On Labor Day, as I put the finishing touches on my latest novel and sent it off to my editor Jillian in New York City, I thought I was done.  I assumed I had put my colorful, unique characters to bed, that I was finally due for a long hot soak in the tub and maybe even a weekend trip to Sedona for some serious R&R with my best friend Ruthie.  I had no idea how utterly wrong I was.  

 Tuesday morning I slept in late to celebrate and then woke at ten-thirty to the unearthly howling of my cat, Snickers.  Tearing myself from the comfy warmth of my bed, I stumbled into the laundry room and dumped a cup of Meow Mix into her bowl.  Then, on second thought, I added some extra.  I was in a generous mood, despite the unwanted wake-up call.  And why shouldn't I be?  I had just completed the fourth mystery thriller in my series, Maple Street Murders, and my next royalty check from book number three would be arriving in my mailbox any day now.  Life was good.  Very good.  

Okay, so I still needed a man, but that's another story entirely.  

Out on my back patio I was enjoying the morning paper and a cup of mint hot cocoa with a banana-nut muffin when I heard voices coming from over the wall next door.  Considering the house had been vacant for almost a year, I was understandably curious.  

I should have minded my own business.  I realize that now.  But the writer in me wouldn't leave well enough alone.  I am nosy by nature, and I can hardly apologize for that.  It's how I earn a living!  Anyway, that's when the trouble started.

Peering over the wall, I got the shock of my life.  There was Francie, in the flesh!  

Okay, let me back up a bit.  You haven't read Maple Street Murders number four, because it hasn't yet gone to print, but Francie is the darling of the book, at least until she commits murder on page one hundred and sixty-two.  Francie the neighborhood pest, food-blogger and recipe swiper extraordinaire.  Larger than life, Francie looks like a cross between Sofia Vergara and Paula Deen.  Just to be clear, Sofia's face but Paula's body.  I had just spent the last year of my life honing and shaping Francie until she was so real to me I sometimes caught myself trying to look her up on Facebook.  

I knew Francie as well as I knew the pesky mole under my left armpit.  And the woman standing in the backyard next door was her, no doubt about it.  

For a moment I stood there on my tiptoes, watching her talk to one of the hired U-Haul guys, pondering this jaw-dropping resemblance.  She was dressed in a tangerine polka-dotted getup, something Francie would have thoroughly embraced.  She even wore the same fuschia-colored scarf around her hair that Francie wore when she had her open house in Chapter Two and invited the neighborhood gals over for chicken salad sandwiches and her 'famous' lemon bars.  The resemblance was uncanny.  Even her red stiletto pointy-toed heels were Francie-esque.  

Like I said, I should have left it right there.  She wasn't any of my business, and if she was about to become my new next-door neighbor, the last thing I wanted to do was get chummy with her.  But as the day wore on and I heard her shrilly Southern voice directing the moving guys where to place her furniture and boxes, I found myself peering over the adjoining wall again and again.  

At four o'clock I was busily engaged in the arduous task of cleaning my six-foot fish aquarium, trying desperately to mind my own business, when I heard the doorbell ring.  It was my new next-door neighbor.  She stood there in a frilly pink apron, her voluptuous lipsticked mouth smiling innocently at me.  I wasn't surprised to see a plate of brownies in her hands, another food item that my Francie was famous for.  

"Umm, hi," I stammered.

"Hello!  I'm your new next-door neighbor," she trilled.  "Just wanted to come by and introduce myself.  And I brought you some of my signature pecan delight brownies.  Hope you aren't allergic to nuts?"

"No..."

"Oh, good!"  She was almost ecstatic.  "I do hope we can be friends!"

Friends?  I didn't have any friends.  "I'm Cynthia," I offered reluctantly, reaching out to take the plate.  

"So pleased to meet you!  I'm Francis, by the way."  

What were the odds?  All I could do was smile and stare.

*****

Things got weirder over the next few days and weeks.  Just like my fictional Francie, Francis made the rounds all over the neighborhood, sharing her baked goodies and trading recipes with all the stay-at-home moms and sweet grandma types.  Everyone loved her.  And how could you not?  After all, who doesn't love a fresh caramel apple pie after a long hard day of chasing kids?  And the dads couldn't keep their eyes off her.  Okay, so she was a little bit fleshy, but still.  This woman was a dream.  

Then came the notorious feud with Gracie Smith three houses down.  During one of Francis's get-to-know-you brunches, Gracie accused her of stealing her highly guarded spinach-and-feta quiche recipe.  The next thing everyone knew, Gracie had shoved the quiche into Francis's face and stormed out.  We all just stood there gawking at our hostess, egg on her face and her usually perky expression growing darker by the second.  

In that moment I think we all knew the game had changed.  

After that I started noticing more uncanny parallels between my Francie and our new neighbor.  Francis started calling the HOA to report Gracie's minor trash violations and illegal overnight parking.  Gracie's brand new Mercedes got seriously egged, and there was no question as to the perpetrator.  Someone mysteriously left what looked like a homeless person's trashy-looking shopping cart in front of Gracie's house.  She had to call one of those 1-800-JUNK trucks to come and take it away.  

Sometimes I could hear Francis and Gracie arguing over the wall, their voices raised.  During those moments I kept my cell phone close by, ready to dial 911 if the noise reached Death-Con levels.  

In Maple Street Murders #4, Francie keeps her neighborhood HOA busy investigating her arch-nemesis's infractions.  Like weeds in the front yard and a basketball hoop set up in the driveway.  But then things progress to the point that the nemesis's cat is poisoned and eventually the nemesis turns up dead with a steak knife stuck in her chest, the stolen recipe card pinned beneath it.

Things were not looking good for our real-life neighborhood food diva.  All indications were that she was about to commit first-degree murder.  

On Halloween eve, I noticed the UPS truck delivering a package next door.  Not good.  (This was how Francie the food blogger acquired her murder weapon in Maple Street Murders #4.  She didn't want to sully one of her expensive Cutco knifes with all the blood, so she ordered a cheap set online.)  There was no way I could let this crime occur.  When my book came out as scheduled in two months, I would be likely be called in for questioning.  

Francis was out doing her weekly marathon shopping trip at Costco.  The only reason I knew this was because that morning she had invited me to come along.  I declined, since I had serious plans to clean out my rabbit cage.  Anyway, with Francis safely out of the way, the logical thing to do was to get rid of the box before she got home.  

Donning my sunglasses and a big floppy hat I found buried in the closet, I slunk next door for a closer look.  The box sat innocently by Francis's front door, just the right size for a set of steak knives.  I couldn't believe how Twilight Zone this felt.  

I peered around to make sure no neighbors were lurking about, then ripped off the tape and dived into the popcorn packing.  This was one murder plot that was about to be iced.  

Just then I heard the clicking of heels on the sidewalk behind me.  "Cyndi?  Is that you?  What on earth are you doing?"

Slowly I raised my head, and there stood Francis, loaded down with strawberries.  True to form, she was even dressed like a strawberry.  I couldn't believe how benign she looked, considering the premeditation involved in all of this.  

"Cyndi?  Why are you opening my package?"

I knew this looked bad, but I wasn't going to stop now.  I thought of Gracie and how her life was in my hands.  I would never be able to forgive myself if I walked away now.  Reaching into the box, I pulled out the murder weapon, holding it high to confront Francis.  

"Yes!  It finally came!" Francis said.

Doing a double take, I realized my error.  I was holding a KitchenAid 9-Speed Digital Display Hand Mixer in candy apple red. 

"Oh goodie!  Now I can try out that new divinity recipe!"

Divinity?  Suddenly I felt like a fool.  

"So, are you here to help?"  She grinned at me. "You can measure the ingredients and I'll unpack this bad boy."  Really, who gets that excited over a hand mixer?

"Uh, sure."  It looked like Francis and I were destined to become friends after all.  

But as I followed her into the kitchen, I couldn't help wondering... what kind of torturous mayhem could be committed with a hand mixer?...

Prompt 1: Novel Character Comes to Life--and may Murder Someone

...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...

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.

(Prompt)

(I didn't follow it exactly, by the way.)