Katherine's Legacy

Waves of exhaustion hit me as I make my way back to my room under the same dim lights of the hallway. Later tonight, Mary will come up to turn the lights off.

I try to suppress a yawn as I climb the stairs and walk down another hallway. I’m mentally and physically tired.

Something brushes itself against my legs when I pause in front of my bedroom door.

“Oh, hello Yokai,” I say to my ragdoll mix. “Where did you come from?” I pick him up and cuddle him in my arms like a baby. He starts to purr as I bury my face in his soft fur.

“I met some jerks in the woods today,” I whisper into his fur as I bring him to my room. I push the door closed with my foot then place Yokai in the middle of my bed.

My room is on the third floor even though there are a lot of empty bedrooms on the second level. My bedroom isn’t the biggest one in the house either.

I chose it when I was nine because it has a cozy window seat and I think it allows in the most sunlight compared to the other rooms in the house, except for the solarium.

“They go to my school, but they were so rude to me, Yokai,” I complain to the cat. “Especially this guy, Elias. Ugh, just the thought of him makes me mad all over again.

“He said I was nothing to him, but he’s nothing to me too. Actually, he’s less than nothing to me. I don’t even know him,” I continue. “Oh Yokai, I really shouldn’t even be thinking about him.”

Yokai rolls over on his back and rubs his head against my hand. I stroke his chin before I pull out my laptop. I have an essay due Monday, and today is already Wednesday.

I’m usually on top of things . . . just not lately.

I struggle with my essay because my mind isn’t in it. It keeps going back to my grandmother, and the ache in my heart grows and grows until my eyes prickle.

I love my grandmother. She’s the only mother figure I know. Apart from Aunt Agatha and an uncle who lives thousands of miles away, she’s the only family I have.

I wonder if my grandmother will ever get up and be her loving self again. I want to hear her voice and her laughter.

I want her to look at me with love in her eyes like she used to, not the sinister, hungry stare she’s giving me now.

My grandmother will get better... won’t she? What if she doesn’t? What will I do without her? My heart is heavy these days. It’s been heavy for the past two weeks.

I push my laptop away and walk over to the window, where I see mostly darkness. There are no stars or the moon in the sky.

I can’t even see the tombstones down there now, but I can feel the storm coming.

Up the hill, beyond the woods, I see lights flickering from the Gauthier mansion like stars from billions of miles away. That brings my thoughts back to Elias Gauthier.

What is he doing? What are they up to now? Whatever it is, I bet they’re not as lonely as I am.

He seemed to dislike me, and I don’t know why. I don’t think I’ve ever offended him. We’d hardly exchanged more than five words before today.

Was it such a big deal that I accidentally meandered onto their property?

I shouldn’t allow him any headspace, but Elias Gauthier keeps invading my thoughts.

I sit back in front of my laptop, but I end up stroking Yokai absently as my mind wanders. I yawn a few times, and finally, I give up all pretenses of trying to work on my essay.

I’m exhausted. Lack of sleep for so many nights, fresh air, and the long walk I had today have tired me out.

“Come on, you!” I pick Yokai up from my bed, and he meows in protest. “I’m sorry, Yokai, but I’m going to bed. Off you go.” I put him outside my bedroom and close the door.

I turn off the light and pull the cover all the way up to my chin. Despite my troubled thoughts, it doesn’t take long for me to drift off.

***

Something woke me up.

I blink and let my eyes wander around. It’s raining pretty hard outside. My room is shrouded in darkness and cold. So very cold.

Then I hear it again—the sound that woke me up. The footsteps in the hallway that can be heard above the pitter-patter of the rain hitting the roof and my windowpane.

It has a rhythm: one sharp thud on the floor, followed by two slow shuffles. Thump . . . thump, thump, thump, thump. Thump . . . thump, thump . . . It’s coming closer and closer.

My heart is pounding hard in my chest. I pull the blanket all the way up, leaving only my eyes uncovered as I stare intently at the door.

Thump . . . thump, thump, thump, thump. Thump . . . thump, thump . . . Closer and closer.

The rhythm of the footsteps is terrifyingly familiar. It sounds very much like my grandmother walking slowly down the hallway with her cane.

Unfortunately, this is not the first time I’ve been awoken in the middle of the night by it.

The first time I heard it was a couple of days after my grandmother fell ill. I thought it was my grandmother who was all better and able to walk again.

I jumped out of bed and almost flung the door open to greet her. But something didn’t feel right even when I was peeling back the cover.

The hair at the back of my neck raised on end. I thought I heard the whisperings in the walls. I dove back into my bed and stayed there. Waiting.

It’s happened several more times since then, and tonight it’s happening again. The room is pitch-black, but I continue staring at the door.

Like many other nights, the footsteps stop right in front of my door. I don’t hear it retreat or continue on its way.

The sound of the rain and the occasional distant roll of thunder can’t seem to drown out the quiet whisperings in the walls.

The fear of the unknown is unbearable. It slithers over me like a faceless, nameless, inky black shadow as I lie waiting, wondering if tonight is the night it’s finally going to open the door and come in.

Whatever it is.

My stomach rolls in anxiety. Whatever it is on the other side, it isn’t amicable. I can feel the intensity of its malice and craving through the closed door.

There’s no escape. Nowhere for me to run.

Like any other night, I wait in fear until exhaustion overtakes me. As my eyelids droop and I fall into a fitful sleep, I think I hear the door creak open.

***

I wake up to the sound of the alarm on my phone and the sunshine pouring in through the windows.

I make it a point not to close the curtains in my bedroom—to let the sunlight in, to chase away the shadows, the coldness . . . and the fear.

The first thing I do when I wake up these days is lift the cover off me and bring my knee up to my chest to inspect my ankles, one after another.

There are two bleeding puncture marks on my right ankle this morning. They look like a bite mark on the tender part, on the inside, just underneath the joint.

The puncture marks started to appear a week or so ago. When I showed them to Aunt Agatha, she suggested it might be Yokai that bit me.

It doesn’t make sense since the space between the two puncture wounds is too wide for it to be Yokai’s canines. My cat’s mouth is too small to create such marks.

Besides, despite the name, Yokai is too gentle to ever do that to me.

Aunt Agatha insisted I put Yokai out of my bedroom before bedtime. That’s why Yokai sleeps outside now.

He used to sleep with me when he showed up at my door in the evenings he wasn’t out prowling, doing whatever cats do.

Despite not having Yokai in my bedroom at night, I still find the bleeding marks on me some mornings. There’s not a lot of blood and it doesn’t hurt, but it’s disturbing.

I wipe my hand across my face, trying to think clearly. Sometimes it’s hard for me to make sense of everything that’s going on around me. Too many things to think about all at once.

Too many sleepless nights and interrupted sleep. I’m so exhausted.

My grandmother would have told me I should get up and pull myself together, back straight and chin up as if nothing bothers me. We Blackwell women don’t crack under pressure.

I grab a Kleenex to wipe the blood off and start to get ready for school.

***

“Hey Cat, wait up!”

I hitch my bookbag up higher on my shoulder as I turn around and watch Jane Westbrook, Giselle Noble, and Tilly Reed strut to my side.

A few students who dare to walk in their paths dodge out of the way, some who are too slow narrowly missing being trampled on.

“Cat!” Giselle throws her arm over my shoulders. Her caramel eyes are twinkling. Her bleach-blonde hair bounces with her every step.

“Tell me you’re going to Bradley Hammond’s party tonight.”

“I can’t,” I tell her.

“Why not?” asks Jane, who comes to flank me on the other side. “No, don’t tell me you’re going out of town again. That was your excuse not to hang out with us last weekend.

“The weekend before that, you said something about hanging out with your grandmother. That’s so . . .”

“Lame?” supplies Tilly. Her index finger is twirling a lock of her glossy dark brown hair around and around. It’s become her habit since she stopped biting her nails.

My friends don’t know about my grandmother. I haven’t told them she’s not well. I don’t know why.

“Come on, Cat . . . it’s Bradley Hammond’s party!” says Giselle, squeezing my shoulder.

“Bradley throws a party at least once a month,” I reply as we reach our lockers. Giselle lets go of my shoulders to go to hers.

Giselle’s locker is right next to mine while Jane’s is one locker away on the other side. And Tilly’s . . . well, I’ve never seen Tilly at her locker.

“And we always go,” I state as I open the locker and work on transferring my books from my locker to my bookbag.

“We always go because they’re awesome parties,” argues Jane.

Only select people are invited to Bradley’s parties, but they’re always wild. Sometimes too wild. I know some kids use illegal substances at the party even though I never go near them.

Fortunately, the police are never involved. It’s probably because their neighbors are wise enough to know not to get on the wrong side of the Hammonds.

They also know that if they called the cops on us, we’d get off with just a slap on the wrists because of who our families are.

“Besides, it’s a school night,” I continue, giving them my excuses.

“Since when did you let that stop you from partying with us?” asks Giselle. She has a point. It didn’t before. But I’ve stopped going to parties since my grandmother became ill.

It feels wrong to be partying when my grandmother is bound to her bed.

“You guys go. Have fun. I’ll go to the next one, I promise.” I get the sense I’m being watched and let my eyes slide behind Giselle.

A penetrating dark gaze is staring back at me. The owner of those eyes is a tall, brooding figure who’s leaning against a wall next to the back door, about thirty feet away.

His white shirt is stretched across his broad shoulders and tapered down over his flat abs. His long legs are encased in dark designer jeans.

His arms are crossed over his chest, and his sexy just-rolled-out-of-bed hair curls around the nape of his neck.

Just this morning, I was thinking maybe Elias Gauthier wasn’t as bad as I made him out to be and that I was overreacting. But now I remember why he aggravated me so much.

It’s not just the thing he said, it’s the way he said it, and the way he’s looking at me—like I’m beneath him or my mere existence annoys him.

It aggravated me then, it’s aggravating me now, and now, we’re involved in some kind of a stare-off.

One corner of his lips curls up slightly like he’s mocking me. That lopsided smirk makes him look even more attractive. Insufferable jerk!

My friends follow my line of sight.

“One of the Gauthier twins,” breathes Tilly.

“Elias Gauthier,” huffs Jane, suddenly sounding all pissed-off.

I rip my eyes off him to look at my friends. When I lift an eyebrow at Giselle, she rolls her eyes as if to say, “Drama. You don’t want to know about it.”

But then she leans in to whisper in my ear, “I’ll tell you about it later.”

“He’s so hot though,” whispers Tilly with a sigh.

“Looks don’t make up for a jerky attitude,” snides Jane.

“They kinda do when you’re the Gauthier twins,” says Tilly, and her response seems to irk Jane even more.

I slide my gaze back to Elias to see one of the goth or emo chicks, Roxanne, tugging on his arm, trying to get his attention.

“He’s staring at Cat,” whispers Tilly with a giggle.

We all jump when Jane angrily slams her locker shut.