The Ghost and The Graveyard (The Monk's Hill Witch) by Jack Genevieve

Author:Jack, Genevieve [Jack, Genevieve]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: General Fiction
Publisher: Carpe Luna Publishing
Published: 2012-09-05T19:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

Strange Cup of Joe

By the time I’d completed my nursing duties and handed off my patients, I’d put in an hour of overtime. I plodded to my car, exhausted from thirteen hours of beeping machines, blood, and drugs. On the way home, I called my dad but he must have been with a client because it went straight to voicemail.

“Dad, I just wanted to tell you I love you. I’m so glad you told me the truth about Mom. Maybe we can have dinner Sunday night. Call me when you get a chance.”

I ended the call and pulled into a Java Jane’s for a cup of coffee. I wasn’t sure I’d stay awake on the country roads to Red Grove without it.

There was a line for the drive thru so I parked, drifting to the counter half-asleep. “I’ll have a Fall Spice Latte,” I said to the barista.

After I paid, I folded into a wooden chair at one of the bistro style tables while I waited for my grande. Even though I was exhausted, I couldn’t help but notice an old man in the corner of the café staring at me. He was giving me the hairy eyeball as if he’d just seen me on America’s Most Wanted. Beady eyes peeked out from a deeply wrinkled face of a yellow color that only comes from a lifetime of heavy smoking and abuse of alcohol.

Every self-defense class I’d ever taken emphasized that eye contact simply encourages the aggressor, so I looked away, hoping he’d lose interest. I heard him scoot his chair back on the tile and out of the corner of my eye, saw him scratch his potbelly through his stained t-shirt. Besides the barista, he and I were the only ones inside. I silently prayed he’d leave. No luck. I didn’t hear him approach until he was right next to me, close enough for me to smell his foul breath, a smell I could only compare to the stench of gangrene.

“I see you,” he said in a raspy drawl that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

My protective instincts told me to run. Instead, I turned my head and looked him square in the face, my most professional demeanor sliding into place like a mask. “If you need a doctor, the hospital is a mile north of here. You can get treatment in the emergency room.”

The wrinkles of his face swallowed his eyes as he considered what I said. He tilted his head to the side, contemplating me with such intensity I stood up and stepped toward the counter just to get away from him.

“I’ll be right with you,” the barista said, busy finishing my latte.

The old man showed a mouthful of yellow teeth. Was that supposed to be a smile? “For now, heh-cah-tee,” he rasped. “But I see you. I see you.” And then, to my relief, he left, laughing all the way out the door.

“Here’s your latte,” the barista said, handing me the cup.

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