Prophetical Coincidence

  Fingers flew across the silver keyboard, articulating the thoughts that swirled inside Mackenna’s head. She paused for a moment, her right hand reaching out to grasp the handle of her coffee mug, bringing it to her lips to take a sip of her creamed-and-sugared morning beverage. Placing it back down on its coaster, she returned her attention back to her in-progress novel.

“Blood permeated the scene before the detective’s eyes. The familiar, metallic scent filled his nose as he allowed his eyes to canvas the parking garage where the body had been found. Shards of clear and red-tinted glass lay scattered about the deceased human being, signifying that a collision with the back end of a car had occurred.”

A musical chime emanating from Mackenna’s cell phone drew her attention away from her laptop. A sigh fell from her lips as her eyes landed upon the time, and she swiped a finger over the notification to silence the disruption. She closed the lid to her laptop, swallowed the remains of her coffee in one gulp, and rose from her desk chair, making her way to her bedroom in order to change into her work uniform and slip on her sneakers. Phone in pocket and keys in hand, she exited her apartment, locking the door behind her and descending down the stairs that led to the complex’s outdoor parking lot. Her thumb pressed down on the “unlock” button on her key fob as she approached her Honda Accord, opening the driver’s door and sliding into her seat.

After a ten-minute drive, shorter than her usual commute due to the fact that it was nearing ten o’clock in the morning and most of the citizens of Shasta Valley were already settled into their nine-to-five jobs, Mackenna arrived at the café at which she worked. Its location in the center of college town granted it a constant flow of customers, though tips fluctuated and often consisted of loose pocket change or crumpled dollar bills that got rejected by the campus vending machine.

Shutting off the engine, Mackenna rose from her car, thumbing the “lock” button before stuffing her keys into her pocket. She padded up to the front door of the café, pulling open the glass door and inhaling deeply, exhaling a contented hum as the aroma of fresh-ground dark roast coffee infiltrated her nostrils. She waved to a few regular customers- students who liked to curl up in the corner recliners before or in-between classes, typing at their laptops and scribbling in their notebooks while sipping on mochas and cappuccinos- as she made her way to the break room where she deposited her keys and cell phone into her locker and plucked her apron from its hook upon the wall beside the door.

Her fingers nimbly tied the strings behind her back while she walked out to the front counter, releasing the fabric so that she could type her employee ID into the clock-in screen of the register.

“Morning, Mackenna,” greeted her supervisor, offering her a quick smile while one handheld a stainless-steel pitcher of milk and the other turned the dial that powered the steam wand.

“Morning,” Mackenna called back, tucking a lock of auburn hair behind an ear. A paper cup slid into her line of sight, and a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Your usual,” her supervisor chirped. “White mocha with lavender.”

“Aw, she loves me,” Mackenna chuckled, taking the cup in her left hand and bringing it to her mouth.

Her shift began as it often did; steady influx of customers, a mix of cram session college students and early lunch office employees; tips ranging from crinkled ones at the bottoms of purses to generous ten-dollar bills, plus a few scraps of paper with phone numbers scribbled desperately on them; and just enough time between rushes to clean and sanitize the counters and brew heads and steam wands before the next round began.

Lunch time found Mackenna seated at the small table in the breakroom, a sandwich she’d purchased from the café’s display case held in one hand. The other hand scrolled through the notifications on her phone, checking texts and social media before finally settling on a YouTube video that began playing through the earbud stationed in her left ear.

“Hey, Mackenna,” a familiar voice chimed as the break room door opened and closed. Mackenna nodded in acknowledgement as one of the café’s student employees, a journalism major named Sabrina, prepared to begin her shift.

“Did you hear about the dead body?”

Mackenna gave a noncommittal hum in response. Somehow, in between morning classes, afternoon shifts, and a vivacious social life, Sabrina found the time to stay up to date with town-wide gossip. Mackenna supposed it came naturally to her, the personality trait that fueled the in-depth articles she wrote for the school newspaper.

“What dead body?” Mackenna inquired, taking another bite of her turkey sandwich.

“Someone totally got murdered in the parking garage downtown; you know, the one by the hospital?” Sabrina replied, her back turned to Mackenna as her thumbs furiously typed replies to her multitude of friends before she set her phone inside her locker.

The older barista felt a twinge in her chest. “A parking garage, huh?”

Sabrina nodded vigorously. “There was blood everywhere! It was even on the news - channel five!”

Not usually one to pay attention to whatever nonsense her coworkers left playing on the break room TV, Mackenna found herself reaching for the remote and switching to the channel of the local news station.

“Shasta Valley police have been called to the scene of what appears to be a violent hit-and-run,” explained the newscaster, standing in the dimly lit parking garage. Drying blood could be seen behind her, along with shattered glass and evidence markers. “The victim’s identity has not yet been released, but Detective Moore believes that there was more to this incident than a car collision alone.”

It has to be a coincidence, Mackenna’s brain insisted as she stared, wide-eyed, at the television screen.

“See what I mean?” Sabrina shrieked, practically bouncing on her feet as her hands tied her apron behind her back. “Crazy, right? Stuff like that never happens here!”

“Yeah...” Mackenna murmured. “Crazy.”

“Anyway,” the college student exhaled, preparing her customer service demeanor. “See you out there?”

Mackenna offered a half-hearted sound of affirmation, her eyes still glued to the news report.

Coincidence. It had to be a coincidence.

The barista returned home shortly after the end of her shift, heaving a tired sigh as she stepped into her apartment, closing and locking the door behind her. The news report of the dead man found in the parking garage had plagued her mind for the rest of the day.

Surely, it had to be nothing. Logically, there was no way it could be linked to her novel. Still, in the back of her mind, she felt that perhaps they could be connected. She’d never written horror before; her teen years were spent lost in supernatural romance fantasies, and the hustle and bustle of her early twenties had left hardly any time for writing at all. Now at twenty-eight, she thought she’d try her hand at a murder mystery.

But that same day, a murder of an identical theme occurred in her town? And Sabrina’s statement had been accurate. Nothing this dramatic or dreadful ever happened in the small borough that was Shasta Valley.

Unable to sleep, Mackenna settled into her desk chair and opened her laptop. She had to run a few tests to see if her writing really had anything to do with what had happened downtown. Steeling herself with a deep breath, she allowed her fingers to skate across the keyboard, throwing in insignificant but specific details that would tell her if it really was just a coincidence.

“The face would have been difficult to identify, with the way it had been bashed in with what the police assumed to be a baseball bat. Clearly, the hit-and-run was either a cover-up or an accident. Their team would be able to collect the shards of taillight glass and discover the make and model of the car, which would later be revealed as a 1993 Pontiac Grand Am.”

Mackenna paused, re-reading her latest additions. Satisfied that the chances of these details appearing on the local news station were slim to none, she closed her laptop and began readying herself for bed.

The next few days passed without much excitement. The barista’s shifts were normal. Mundane. She brewed espresso shots and blended smoothies, drizzled caramel and sanitized equipment. She’d taken a break from her novel and had spent little time thinking about it, allowing herself to relax.

Until Detective Moore sauntered into the café with his partner, and the two law enforcers purchased their beverages- a large hot Americano and a large almond milk latte with vanilla- before settling into a small table by the front window. It was far enough away from the display case, merchandise shelves, and busier sections of the café to allow for free discussion about the ongoing case, but close enough that Mackenna could grasp a few words of the conversation without looking like she was actively eavesdropping.

“Is forensics sure his face was bashed in with a bat?” Detective Shack, Moore’s assistant, clarified as he withdrew his pocket notebook from the inside of his blazer and gazed down at his scribblings.

“That’s what they said,” Detective Moore confirmed, checking the findings inside his own notepad. He opened his mouth to continue speaking, but the voice of the auburn-haired barista behind the counter cut him off.

“Americano and an almond milk latte!” Mackenna called out, placing the two steaming paper cups atop the sleek, wooden counter. She lingered nearby, wiping down the drip tray with feigned concentration.

“They also ran tests on the taillight pieces,” Detective Moore added as he popped the lid off of his Americano and emptied a couple of sugar packets into the dark liquid. “Said they came from a 1993 Pontiac Grand Am. They’re checking the DMV database to see if there are any registered in Shasta Valley.”

Mackenna nearly dropped the bleach cloth she’d been holding, her head whipping around to stare at the two detectives’ backs as they sauntered back to their table. How could it be possible that the details of her novel were identical to that of a real murder investigation?

She decided that two instances weren’t enough to convince her that her apparent prophetical abilities weren’t merely coincidental. Upon returning home from work, Mackenna allowed herself a hot shower to clear her mind and grant her time to incorporate a more intricate test of cosmic involvement into her novel.

After drying off, the barista slipped on her evening wear of choice - cotton panties and a spaghetti-strap tank top. She wrapped her long locks into a towel stationed atop her head and padded out of the bathroom and into her kitchen to fix herself a low-effort dinner. She settled on tossing a frozen pizza into the oven, and while it baked, she sat down at her desk and began typing furiously into the word document which held her manuscript.

“Further digging into the victim’s background revealed that he’d been a long-time wife-beater. The detectives working to solve his murder had drudged up his criminal record, discovering several counts of domestic abuse. Switching their attention to the victim’s wife, they were directed to her hospital records, which consisted of over a dozen ER visits for broken bones and open wounds. Every single admission had been listed as ‘accidental’ according to the wife, such as a fall down the stairs or dropping a kitchen knife. Friends of the couple knew better and had reported their suspicions to the local police, which eventually led to the victim’s arrest.”

Mackenna closed her laptop, leaning back in her desk chair just as the oven timer beeped, signaling that her dinner had finished cooking. She rose from her desk and sauntered back into the kitchen, slipping an oven mitt over her right hand and pulling open the oven door with her left.

After consuming half of the pizza and storing the remnants in a plastic container in her fridge, Mackenna headed to her bedroom to relax until she was ready for bed. Nestled at the head of her bed with pillows supporting her back, she turned on her TV and began playing one of her comfort movies, the familiarity providing neutral background noise as she flitted through social media updates on her phone.

Sunlight shining through the window warmed Mackenna’s bedroom, slowly slipping into her subconscious until she fully awoke. She hummed softly to herself as she came to, stretching her arms above her head. There was no work to attend today, and the mental reminder of that fact brought a sleepy smile to the barista’s lips.

Her feet kicked at her feather comforter until it bundled at the foot of her bed. Her legs swung over the side of the bed, guiding her body into a seated position, from which she rose to her feet. She padded out of her bedroom and into her kitchen, filling her coffee pot with water and coffee grounds. While the machine got to work, she unlocked her phone and began filtering through her notifications. A news bulletin appeared at the top, and her heart thundered in her chest at the headline.

“Victim of recent hit-and-run identified.”

With a shaky inhale, Mackenna clicked the notification, loading up an article from the local news station’s website.

“The body that was found last Wednesday in the parking garage in downtown Shasta Valley has been identified as thirty-six-year-old Shasta Valley resident Rosco Daniels. Shasta Valley police are reluctant to reveal many details to the public, but close friends of Daniels’ and his wife, Marissa, have come forward to share their suspicions.

‘Everyone knew he was abusive,’ states Daniels’ close friend, Travis Baker. ‘My wife and I reported his abuse to the police more than once. We wanted to intervene more directly, but we didn’t want him to take anymore anger out on Marissa.’

‘Marissa always tried to say she fell down the stairs,’ says Baker’s wife, Cassie. ‘Everyone knew better, and I think Marissa knew that, but she had to accept it before she’d let anyone help.’”

Mackenna’s breath was labored as she closed the article and set her phone down on the counter. Her chest rose and fell in her peripheral vision, and she gulped down the saliva pooling inside her mouth.

“I need air,” she murmured to herself, stumbling out of her kitchen in the direction of her closet. She pulled at the first shirt and pair of pants that her fingers could grasp, tugging what revealed themselves to be camouflage leggings and a light grey zip-up hoodie onto her body. She slid her feet into her tennis shoes and stuffed her phone and keys into her hoodie pockets, locking the front door as she exited her apartment.

Once outside, her feet automatically followed a familiar path down the sidewalk that wrapped behind the apartment complex. The building was sat near the edge of town, the back lawn connecting to a small patch of forest that overlooked a river. Jogging paths wound between trees, some leading down to the water and others leading back into town. Mackenna’s preferred path wove through the grove, leading to a clearing in the center of the forest where someone had long ago stationed a wooden picnic table.

She stepped up onto the bench, plopping her weight down on the tabletop. Alone with her thoughts and surrounded by the scent of spruce and pine, the barista tilted her head back and inhaled a breath that filled her lungs. Her fingers dug into the splintered wood of the tabletop, her nails picking at the peeling paint.

At least an hour passed before she found herself ready to return home. She hopped off of the bench, her feet landing upon dried leaves and small twigs with a soft “crunch.” She meandered back along the path, stepping around fallen branches and large rocks until she returned to the main road that led to her apartment.

Recent events clouded Mackenna’s thoughts, and she wasn’t as vigilant during her walk as she normally would have been. Just as she stepped onto the pavement, the stale silence of the morning was replaced by screeching tires, a honking horn, and a man’s voice yelling concern-laced profanities at Mackenna. She barely had time to turn her head and catch a glimpse of cobalt blue metal before she was on the ground and her vision faded to black.

Fingers danced eloquently across a black keyboard as Max allowed his thoughts to flow into his open word document. His favorite crime drama played in the background, providing comforting white noise to keep his creative gears turning.

“Admittedly, Jason had taken the turn onto the side street that led down to his girlfriend’s apartment complex faster than he should have. But he never would have expected to see her crossing the street without so much as a glance towards oncoming traffic. He braked as hard as he could, his back tires spinning out to one side, but his acceleration was too high to come to a complete stop before front bumper of his cobalt blue Mustang collided with his girlfriend’s body. He leapt from the car, screaming hysterically, his words caught between cursing her ignorance and pleading for her wellbeing. Kneeling beside her unconscious body, he pressed two fingers to the pulse point on her neck. It was then that he noticed the blood pooling beneath her head, and his heart dropped to his stomach.”