The Ghost of Drakkar

She thought she had found her safe haven. She thought he could never find them here.

It was two days from her book signing and her nerves were in a bunch as public speaking was not her forte. But these days’ books do not sell themselves.

Pacing back and forth, practicing her speech for her latest crime novel signing event, she glanced from the front window and stopped in her tracks.

Instantly she was overwhelmed with the aromatic scents of Bergamot and was transported to a woodsy atmosphere that reeked of fresh leather. There was a time she inhaled this aroma, sucking in every bit of the masculine bouquet as possible, but in this moment she felt weak with a sudden urge to regurgitate her pesto panini.

Clouds of old-fashioned masculinity surrounded her as she paced the upstairs rooms walking more rapidly with every step as if her pace would escape the smell.

The classic well-known scent was now a traumatic memory; far worse than the putrid salmon that once filled her childhood home when Mother received a fresh catch from her grandfather, who happened to be a commercial fisherman. And as much as the stiffening stench of fish repulsed her senses, she longed for it in that moment of confusion.

My senses must be out of whack. I covered all of my tracks. He could not possibly find me here.

She recalled what was once a welcomed fragrance had now become a terrifying odor of horror.

Startled by the teapot that screamed for her attention, her nerves were wearing thin by minute distractions. But lemon tea decorated with a slice of lemon zest would surely burst her senses back to normality. The bright yellow fruit was freshly picked from her tree and the local leaf tea purchased from the local farmer’s market was reliably fragrant.

As she placed her nose above the steaming cup of cured fresh citrus leaves, her mind reverted back to the terrifying possibility that he had succeeded again. His relentless attempts to stalk her will never die; she knew that much. 

After what seemed like an hour frozen in time, she redirected her thoughts and ran to the front window, stretching her neck to see the country road, high above. As the breeze moved the branches of the walnut trees, walnuts the size of golf balls rained on her car’s hood.

She shook her head, trying to erase the flashbacks that continued to replay in her scattered mind.

You better find yourself a good bodyguard. You won’t get out of this alive.

Just then, she hears the side gate slowly creak open, racing downstairs confirming all the doors and windows are locked. Slipping halfway down the stairs, she pops up like a hot Pop Tart in a toaster.

She trembles with fear, running from room to room, peering out from the windows and into her backyard.

That’s strange. I took all of the safety precautions…my P.O. Box is in place, I stayed off social media, cut ties with my friends… how could he find me? I need to lie down.

It has been five years since Willow, her son Louie and partner Steve moved from Sonoma to a small country town high up in the mountains to escape the death threats of her unstable psychotic ex. The authorities were of no help and if she continued to live under these conditions, her instincts insisted there was a good chance she would be featured on a future Dateline episode. She could not allow him to destroy her mental health any longer as the last nervous breakdown took months for her to recover. She left the only home she knew in order to protect her family and herself, hoping to regain some sort of quality of life.

Taking her own advice, she laid down. The last thing she needed was another breakdown.

Feeling a bit restless, as the sun started to set, she reached for the bedside light. Thinking the bulb must have burned out, only to get up and turn the bedroom light switch on but still no light. It appeared to her that the power was out, and with hopeful confirmation she glanced out the window to the nearest neighbor’s house and noticed their lights were on.

They have power. Odd.

Desperately trying not to overthink the situation, a loud thud sounded off downstairs in the basement - resounding like a column of heavy boxes falling to the hard concrete floor followed by a loud silence.

Both Steve and Louie have not returned home from work. She was alone and it was time for her to put her big girl panties on again and be brave.  With will and determination, as sweat dripped from her brow, the familiar scent of the woods slammed her senses. Drakkar was his cologne and there was no denying he was in the house.

The mighty 50-year-old underdog investigated the scene on her own, and reached for the flashlight from underneath her bed; her hand shaking as she maneuvered her way in the complete darkness.

Halfway down the stairs, she heard the door knob to the basement jiggle as if someone was trying to gain access to the downstairs from the basement.

Was the basement door locked?

It was too late to worry about that now. Someone was inside the basement and she would bet her life of who that perpetrator was.

Before taking another step down the creaky stairs to encounter the inevitable horrors below, she fumbled for her cell phone and called 911.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“Please come to 1865 Bridgeville. Please hurry. There’s an intruder inside my basement.”

“Ma’am please speak up. I can barely hear you.”

Willow slowly sneaks up the staircase and manages to step on every creaky board while doing so. The trembling of her hand makes her lose the grip of the phone and it violently falls to the stairs.

“1865 Bridgeville…..”

Suddenly the basement door slams down and off the door hinges.

Nothing but screams of terror can be heard throughout the house. Whoever it is, is now in inside.