Curse From Eve p. 3

A/N: Thank you to all that have liked this story so far! Here’s some more…

Last time on Curse From Eve…

I sat back in bed, my eyes still shut. I listened to the telltale signs of the upstairs apartment waking up. The mother was screaming her Bronxian woes at her piece of shit deadbeat husband. By the muffled sound of walking pumps, she had just gotten home from whatever she had been doing rather than being a parent.

“I concur, she is such a whore.” a voice said beside me.

I fell off the bed as I had a heart attack, seizure, and pulmonary embolism all at once.

We now continue…

 

The voice had been Scottish.

The voice of my intruder, that was in my bed, after I had a dream about a screaming black-eyed beast thing in the realm of There and the 12 wax figure teenagers in church dress were screaming after her…was Scottish.

“Aye, you are a fucked up lass, aren’t you?” the mystery brogue spoke, still on the bed.

I lay here. If I just lay here. On my bedroom floor, can I just die here right now? 

“You could, but you migh’ miss the handsome Scottish gentleman in yer boudoir.”

“Why the fuck are you here? Why the fuck am I here? What the fuck is going on?!” I yelled into the hardwood, my face already sticking to it as I lay face down trying my hardest to disintegrate and melt through the cracks. That’d be quite the horror film for 3B.

“Really? Those are your questions? I thought the firs’ might be ‘How the fuck do you know what I’m thinkin’ righ’ noo?'” he asked.

“Actually, I’d quite like to know why the fuck are you in my bed?!” I snapped.

“This conversation might be easier to have if you weren’t a floor rug, love.”

“Nothing in my fucking life has been easy!” I said, mortified as my voice broke. I sobbed like a two-year-old that was told she couldn’t have another cookie.

“Why do they always cry?” I heard him grumble, more to himself.

With great effort, I managed to inchworm myself up to a sitting position and with greater effort (and probably a lung collapsing in the process), I hoisted my body up to stand, clutching onto the bed post. I took sight of the man that was in my bed and instantly beat the niggling innuendos that were flaring in my boggled, harried mind.

Of course, he was the handsome, strong-jawed type of man that would never grace this bed had he just been a guy in a bar and heard one sob story about my past.

And yet, he was relaxing, arms behind his head like he was toiling away the summer day in a fucking hammock in a glen. His dark eyes matched his leering expression.

I instantly noticed that his eyes weren’t just dark…

…they were pinkish–red like mine.

“Well, hello there. Want to play Braveheart? I’ll be Scotland and you be the English.”

Did he just imply-?

Oh, hell no.

“Fine. You will William Wallace and I’ll be the King of England.” I snapped back.

“Oooh, sassy. I like that in a girl.” he volleyed.

“Are you here for a reason or can I get on with calling the cops?”

I blinked and he was gone.

No, seriously. In that infinitesimal nanosecond where my eyelid formed over my eye, he had vanished.

“Boo,” I heard him whisper in my ear only five inches from me.

I screamed like a banshee and fell over once more.

Oh hi, floor. We really do need to stop meeting like this.

“I agree, it’s not exactly comfortable…” he murmured, appearing next to me, lying with his face pressed against the floor. But I hadn’t heard him move, or shuffle, or any joints popping or the ruffle of fabric as I would have had I heard or seen him positioning himself down here with me.

This was a dream. Just another dream. Yet, it seemed so much like the real world and I had my body as I had never done when I was There.

“You call it There? Call it Nowhere, meself.” he grumbled.

“Stop doing that!” I hissed.

“Sorry. It’s hard to distinguish between spoken words and thought with you.” he admitted nonchalantly.

I wrenched myself off the floor once more.

I stared at him unbelievably. “You ghost around my fucking apartment and hear my fucking thoughts, and I don’t even fucking know who you are, and you are here complaining like I’m making your life inconvenient!”

“Well, I could have knocked. But…you sort of don’t have a door at the moment.”

What? I asked incredulously.

“Turns out the neighbors you thought were cocaine addicts, were actually meth heads. They blew up half of your flat with their cooker next door and I could only pop in and save the people around them. Also…this isn’t your flat. It’s mine. I was making it seem like it was yours using my energies to activate your brain’s memory centers and I’m sorry, it was a huge invasion of your personal space, but I had to make it easier for you–”

I got up, my body nearly seizing from the angry adrenaline now rocketing through my bloodstream. I went to MY bedroom door and wrenched it open, intending to step into MY living room–

But it wasn’t.

It wasn’t my living room.

The furniture was all wrong. The couch was centered on a horrendous yellowish-brown rug beneath rather than pushed to the wall aside the fish tank–MY FISH TANK! Where was my fish tank! Mr. Buttons loved that fish tank!

Mr. Buttons!

“Calm doon, he’s right here. Bag of fluffy allergies.” the Scottish stranger said, pointing out the terrified orange tabby on his couch…next to a equally spooked Samoyed puppy that I didn’t recognize. Its frightened eyes peaked out from its adorable face.

“Aye…she was actually the new pup of the family living on the other side of the meth addicts, but…I couldn’t get her owners out in time. And I…couldn’t just leave the poor thing there. Her tag says her name is Hera.” he said, going over to pet the puppy.

My knees were shaking and I found myself sinking into the closest living chair I could find.

I looked over at him as he lifted Hera into his lap. She immediately licked his face and wagged her tail, her sweet little doggy mind not comprehending that she wasn’t going back to her owners.

“I want answers.” I implored.

He sighed. “Frederick Reynold Mcfarland, nickname is Ren, lived 38 years and have been CloVoy for 30.”

“CloVoy?” I asked.

“Clairvoyant. That’s what I call it. There’s not exactly a weekly pub meeting.” he said, absently petting the attention-starved creature.

Mr. Buttons hopped off the sofa and did something he hardly ever did when he left kittenhood–he hopped up on my lap. I pet him and scratched his ears. He purred contently and kneaded his claws against my knees, which thankfully my pajama pants were there to shield my skin. No matter how often I cut his nails, he had them manicured to full needle-point the next day.

“There’s another elephant in the room that needs to be addressed.” Ren supplied, looking grim all the sudden.

Mr. Buttons meowed in his low gruff register.

“You have very disturbing thoughts about your owner, pal. Which clued me into the fact that you weren’t always a cat.”

Mr. Buttons leaped off my lap and before I could scramble to catch him, he had pounced on top of Ren, claws out to strike.

“YOU BASTARD, YOU CAN’T SEND ME BACK TO THE FOLD!”

The voice that had issued from the kerfuffle happening now on the sofa had not come from Ren. Mr. Buttons was attempting to claw at his face, but Ren had shielded it with his upraised arms. He attempted to guard himself, but failed as he had to let out a succession of violent sneezes.

GERROFF ME YOU BLEEDIN’ SNEEZE FACTORY!” Ren shouted under the assault. I panicked and did the first thing that popped into my head.

I rolled up the nearest magazine and swatted at the cat until he stopped his fury swipes. Rather than hissing and growling like cat, he was spitting out swears and human-like grunts.

WHAT. IN. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK. ARE YOU?” I yelled as the cat scurried under the nearby end table.

“I am a cat minding his cat business, thankyouverymuch.” the furry not-cat replied, his voice now less brave than he had been when he was trying to claw Ren layer by layer.

“The fleabag you’re infesting WAS a cat, but now it’s going back to its cat self once you’ve vacated it, Rumley!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking ’bout, I am but a simple cat living with its pretty owner!” the not-cat called Rumley shot back.

“Wait…why does the cat sound like a Londoner?” I wondered.

Really? That’s the question you ask?” Ren asked me with exasperation.

“Okay: Why does my cat, that is fucking talking, who has lived in my New Yorkian apartment with me since he was a kitten for NINE YEARS, have an accent that distinctly NOT the ‘every-letter-is-a-vowel’ New York accent, but fucking Cockney English?”

OI, I’m from Essex!” the cat blurted suddenly. Ren’s face just as quickly went from dismayed to fiendishly delighted. “Oh, shite.”

The not-cat Rumley from Essex used his four-legged agility (meowing/crying like a wimpy human male all the while) to shoot from under the end-table to try to shuffle himself under the lounger…but Mr. Buttons’ fat furry ass couldn’t fit under it.

“As you may have guessed, there is a bloke using your cat as a fur-suit.” Ren pointed out.

“So, what you’re saying, is that there’s a man…trying to wear my pussy as a disguise?” I stammered, my own befuddled brain becoming giddy and reckless in this day’s events of utter fuckery.

Ren looked at me both shocked and almost disappointed as I laughed at my own lame joke. I was such a 12-year-old.

Someone else thought the joke was funny.

The not-cat was squirming now on its back raucously laughing at the horrible pun and Ren took the moment to wrest the giggling cat into a less than agreeable baby cradle position. Ren placed his hand over the cat’s head and the flailing limbs became limp in his arms.

“Not to worry, I’ve just put the cat to sleep. Tricky thing, sleeping minds.” he mumbled. “It allows the body to rest, but for the few unfortunate persons whose souls are not latched to them…sleep allows these souls to…escape. Or if such souls are now being forced out the bodies that already had one…”

I squealed in abject horror as a completely naked and very hairy man appeared out of nowhere, curled into a ball at our feet.

 

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