The Evil Within 2o1k34

The Evil Within People Are Not What They Seem

D.L. West Jr.

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Haunted Chapter 2: Focus and Fear Chapter 3: Towers Come Crumbling Down Chapter 4: Past Inside a Locket Chapter 5: A Reckoning

Chapter 1: Haunted

Cyrus stared unseeing at the foam in his beer glass. He could still make out her shape from the corner of his eye. His grip tightened. His fingers displaced the condensation that covered the surface of the glass, leaving streaks to pool on the serviette he was using as a coaster. He stilled his heart and steadied his breathing. “It’s not her,” he whispered to himself, repeating those three words like a mantra to bring himself back from the brink. He stole a glance at the woman over his shoulder. Her vibrant red hair made his whispered mantra die in his throat. Cyrus turned to look at her, but she seemed completely oblivious to his presence, enjoying her drink and a chat with her group of friends. She laughed, throwing her head back, the sound haunting him as if pulled straight from a nightmare. He knew that laugh. His heart was in his throat. He was shaking as sweat began to bead up on his brow. He turned back to his unfinished drink. “It can’t be her,” he thought. “No, it can't be her. There's just no way.” He stared openly at the woman who seemed to pull attention from every eye in the place. The bartender, Jimmy, grinned knowingly at him as he brought his refill. “It’s not Menette,” he reminded himself. Cyrus could see vividly in his mind’s eye, the cold, dead stare of the woman who, inexplicably, was sitting across the bar from him. He could still see her death mask when he closed his eyes at night, as clear as if she was sitting right next to him. He risked another glance and swallowed, bile rising in his throat as fear took root. She looked healthy and very much alive—this woman that wasn't supposed to be, that absolutely was. Fuck, he thought.

Fuck! Cyrus took a deep breath and steadied himself. He squeezed his eyes shut but could still hear her melodic laugh as they loaded up on drinks. He ran a hand over his tired face, ran that same hand through his hair, and loosened his tie. He swallowed his cold beer in one go. He slapped a couple of bills on the counter, nodded to the barman, and slid off his seat. Unable to resist, he once again stole a glance at her. He looked over his shoulder as he shrugged his coat on. Cyrus caught her gaze in the mirror behind the bar and knew all at once that he was screwed.

Chapter 2: Focus and Fear

Time ed slowly as if it took pleasure in taunting him. Cyrus had spent his days restlessly and unsuccessfully working on new designs. The woman with the vibrant red hair had returned from the grave to haunt him. Twice since the bar, he had seen her face in the crowd, and each time he could have sworn she looked him dead in the eye before he was forced to look away. When he had looked back, she was gone. He rarely took work home with him, but with the redhead causing him distress, he had been working into the cool early mornings before retiring, exhausted, only to repeat the cycle the next day. Cyrus, tired to the bone but glad to be home, deposited his briefcase and several blueprint rolls in the small home office before ing his little family at the dinner table. The meal was pleasant and strikingly different from the turmoil he had experienced every day since he had encountered the woman in the bar. Their presence soothed him. What an image the four of them made, quaint even. Cyrus could barely swallow his meal but remained where he was, making small talk with his wife and son while his little girl flung bits of food across the room from her high chair. 25 years and the redheaded woman was going to ruin his life. Cyrus isolated himself in his office after dinner. He sat idly in front of his drawing table—mechanical pencil in hand—laid out another sheet of paper and paused. He hadn't bothered to change out of his suit. His mind kept drifting to the woman in the bar and the face that still haunted his sleep. Annoyed, he tugged at the tie, pulled it free, and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. Again, he picked up the pencil—the tip of it touching the clean white pages, his hand still as he went through every detail in his mind. Retracing every step. He had been careful. No, she couldn't be alive. She wasn't! The look on her face; the way her body had cooled and her limbs that went stiff in his arms. . . He got up from his chair, slammed the mechanical pencil down, and began to

pace, his hands in his hair. Cyrus was thankful that the office door was closed behind him because he had zero clue on how to explain his state of mind to Laura. He wouldn’t even know how to begin. She wouldn’t be able to handle it. Hell, he was barely able to handle it. Here was a woman back from the dead. A woman haunting him somehow. Alike, somehow. A woman that wasn't supposed to be, a woman that had died 25 years ago. There was a knock on the door, and his wife's gentle voice coaxed him from his cave with a promise of a cup of cocoa and physical comfort. “The kids are down for the night. Why don’t you come to bed with me?” “Laura,” he said. He knew what a sight he must have made—his hair unkempt and his shirt disarrayed and wrinkled. It was quite different from what he normally projected. “Honey are you okay?” she asked. “You seem a little flustered.” He nodded. “Oh, I meant to give you this,” Laura slipped out of his office and returned, as fast as she had gone, with a stack of letters, bills, and a note addressed to him. “A woman came by the school looking for you,” she said. “She was dressed rather officially.” Laura drifted off, still holding the stack out to him. “I hope you’re not in trouble,” she finally said and motioned for him to take it. The letter addressed to him was written in clean, neat lettering. The print was familiar. Near identical to hers. It took all of his strength and self-control not to let any emotions on his face. None. As he stared at it, he could only imagine what was inside. “Go on, open it,” she said. Cyrus carefully closed his hand around the stack, the texture of the envelopes rubbing like thorns against his skin. He took the stack from her and placed it on the small side table. He took his wife's face in his hands and kissed her deeply,

feeling his fingers tremble slightly against her skin. “There’s time for that tomorrow,” he said. “Whatever it is, it can wait.’ Cyrus kissed her again, and she responded this time. “Let's go to bed.” His wife grinned at him, pulling him along behind her, the letter forgotten.

Chapter 3: Towers Come Crumbling Down

After 30 years, they were still happy, still together. Cyrus had made his fair share of mistakes, but he had moved on. At least— He shoved the unpleasant thought away. He and Laura got married really early. They got engaged and then married straight out of college—he with his architectural degree and her with her psychology degree. She had ed him and stood by him as he built his company from the ground up. He sighed and closed the bedroom door behind him, the light of dawn painting gray swatches across the half-covered windows. He paused outside his office, hesitating. Cyrus chewed on his thumb, staring at the wooden surface of his closed door. He needed to put distance between himself and that letter. Too afraid to open it, too afraid not to. He knew he had seen her in the bar. It was her. It had to be: unmistakably that same voice, that same crooked smile. It may have been 25 years, but that voice was one he would, and could, never forget. Her face was seared into his brain— her eyes. She had sat there in all her glory, taunting him. Cyrus couldn’t stall for too long. He had plans to draw up—a high-profile client looking to hire his firm for all their future projects. A high-profile job for a high-profile client, and exactly the break he had been waiting for. He couldn’t afford to avoid his office all weekend. That was how he found himself at five in the morning brewing a fresh pot of coffee, dressed in sweatpants and a tattered dressing gown, arguing with himself about destroying the letter without opening it. He shuffled to his office, coffee in hand, and stood, staring at the stack of letters as he sipped idly. Sighing, he sifted through them, found the one with the handwriting he recognized, and pursed his lips. “Fuck,” he said. He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger and swore again. His world was slowly unraveling like a giant cosmic woolen blanket.

“Fuck,” he said again, took a large swallow of his coffee, and burned his tongue. He put the mug down on the side table, and carefully, with trembling fingers, split the seam on the envelope. He shook out its contents into his waiting palm. Inside he found a locket. The same locket he had taken from the woman’s neck. The very same locket he had kept. Fear burned through him, the taste of acid on his tongue. He went to the opposite wall, grabbed the edge of an unremarkable painting, and yanked it back, revealing the wall safe it hid. He hastily jabbed in the code, clutching the locket in his fist. It opened with a click and a small whine as the lock disengaged. Cyrus drew open the door, barely breathing. His eyes bulged in their sockets, his heart hammering a new obnoxious beat. The locket was no longer there. The locket he had kept secret. The locket he had saved, had hidden. His trophy and his conscience. Who? Who else had access? his thoughts screamed. For a moment of ego and pride, he would ruin his life. Cyrus slammed the safe shut, clutching the offending object in his hand, crumpling the letter and its contents in his fist. He shook, the urge to violently throw himself at the walls nearly impossible to resist. He inhaled a steadying breath—it took a lot of willpower to unclench that fist and step away from the wall. Cyrus looked at the crumpled paper folded around the locket. He set it aside, shook open the letter, and began to read. His breath came in ragged gasps, he shivered uncontrollably. His muscles wound so tight that the smallest touch would shatter him—make the springs of his life just pull apart. The letter was from her. From Menette. Dated 25 years ago, detailing the man she had met in a bar. Detailing their affair. As he paced, he read; the more he read, the more he knotted his hands in his hair.

He stepped on something and glanced down, bending to pick it up. With still trembling fingers, he smoothed it out. It was a photo of him. With her. One of those old polaroid photos, yellowed but unmistakable in the pair’s identity. A photo she had snuck of the two of them in her small bedroom. Cyrus stared, unseeing. His mind was tracing his every step, his every move since their first meeting, right up until their last night. Fuck! Menette was toying with him. Here he was, his life about to crumble around him; the tower he built about to crush him under its weight. “Dad?” his son came and said to him, tapping lightly on the doorframe. Liam’s eyes darted from Cyrus’ face to the letter in his hands and back again, “Are you okay?” “Yeah,” Cyrus said. “Why are you awake so early?” “There's someone at the door,” he said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “She says she knows you.” Did he have a meeting with someone? He couldn't . Cyrus met Liam’s concerned gaze as his son looked him up and down, taking in his disheveled, tired appearance. “Can I send her away?” Cyrus smiled. Surreptitiously, he crumpled the letter and photo in his hands. From the corner of his eye, he could see the locket sitting on his drawing desk, glinting mutely in the dim morning light. Cyrus forced himself not to acknowledge it and hoped the boy hadn’t miraculously become much more attentive overnight. “Do you want me to send her away?” Liam repeated. Menette? “No,” Cyrus said. “No, that's okay. Just give me a minute. I'll be right out.” Liam nodded and went to show the woman to the living room.

Cyrus took the letter, the locket, and the photograph—the whole lot crumbled as it was—and shoved it back into the safe. He would need to change the code again. A thought settled like ice in his stomach as he tied his robe: was Laura in on it? Did she know? He grabbed his cold cup of coffee and closed his office door behind him, locking it. It was unusual, but he would make up a believable excuse if Laura asked. Right now, he had to be sure. Cyrus met the visitor’s gaze and relief washed through him. It wasn't her as he had thought. “Mr. Beauregard,” she said in greeting. “Do I have our times wrong?” Her eyes drifted over his robe and back up to his disheveled, tired appearance. “No, no, it’s my fault. I am a little unprepared for our morning. If you could kindly wait here, I’ll be with you in a moment.” He knew he didn't make a very good impression, but honestly, what did she expect at 7:30 on a Saturday morning? For a meeting he was completely unprepared for, he added in sourly. 10 minutes later, he was showered and dressed. Cyrus walked in just as his son served her a fresh cup of coffee. “Again, please accept my sincerest apologies, Miss Croft. If you follow me, we can get started on your design,” he said and indicated the hallway to his office.

Chapter 4: Past Inside a Locket

Cyrus thought about giving up his Friday post-work drink at his usual hangout, but the more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself that it would be too suspicious an act. He was, after all, a creature of habit. When Miss Croft had left his office, Cyrus had made the decision to destroy the evidence. Except, he couldn’t bring himself to destroy the locket. He fingered the shape of it through the fabric of his jeans as he nursed a beer. His eyes moved nonstop from face to face as he watched their reflections. He hardly heard the music over the speakers, but he could feel the faint beat in his palms as it reverberated through the wooden countertop. “Hey handsome,” a voice cooed beside him. His heart dropped as he turned to face her. Her. “What say you buy me a drink, and I’ll take you home with me?” Her voice slid down his spine like ice. The hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Cyrus cleared his throat, “Sorry, I’m married.” “Too bad,” she said. “I think you’d be killer in bed.” The way she smiled at him made Cyrus' stomach turn. He drained his glass and slid off his barstool, his mind whirling through booze and fog as he blinked stupidly at her. “Wait up!” she called after him as he pushed through a small cluster of people to the back door. Cyrus lengthened his strides, unsteady on his feet as he kicked the door open and stepped into the cool night air. He leaned against the wall, fighting the bile that rose in his throat. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said. Her low voice didn’t carry, but he

could have sworn he felt it push in around him. She’s not real, he reminded himself. “Just one drink,” she said, stepping closer with each word. He opened his eyes and stared down at her, her green eyes reflecting brightly in the light above the wall behind him. He grabbed her forearm, startled by how real she felt. He pulled her away from the open door as it closed slowly on its arm. He leaned in, towering over her. The situation felt entirely too familiar, too real. The way she smiled at him made his stomach turn. She looked up at him, daring him, her eyes flashing in the dark. “Why won’t you leave me alone?” Cyrus asked, struggling to focus. “Who are you?” “You know who I am, Cyrus,” she grinned. “Don't you ?” Her words slid sinisterly over his skin. She kissed him. The shock and fear and familiarity of it all shook his mind free of the fog. He knew she wasn't an apparition; he knew he wasn't losing his mind. She was real. He could feel her skin under his fingers, he could feel it give way as he squeezed, gripping her. Her lips were soft, but the kiss was startlingly different from what he ed. He pushed her away with ease, but she stepped closer again, forcing him into more shadow. “Who are you?” he repeated. She pushed him away. ripping her arm free, “Be careful who you touch, Cyrus. It might just be the last thing you ever do.” She stepped back into the light and strode back to the bar. The sound loud, fading as he waited for it to close behind her. He stood in the alley in the dark. He leaned his forehead against the rough brick, pressed his palms against it, and pushed himself away. Anger boiling through him, he yanked open the door and stepped back into the

bar. The light and sound overwhelmed him. He leaned over the bar and signaled the bartender. “Hey, Jimmy, who was that?” “Who was who?” Jimmy asked. “The woman I was just with. She came in a few minutes ago from the back.” “I didn’t see any woman, man,” Jimmy said and went to serve a customer. Cyrus bared his teeth, his fists clenched, and walked away. People were messing with him. It had to be. She wasn't alive, couldn’t be. But that woman was real, he would still feel her lips on his. He sat in his car, fuming—punching the steering wheel with balled fists, ignoring the lancing pain. He shouldn't be driving. He had had too much to drink, but he needed to leave.

UNLESS YOU HAD THEM side by side, you wouldn't be able to tell the difference. Unless you saw them side by side—unless you'd been friends with them—you wouldn't be able to tell the difference. Median looked exactly like her, like Menette. Some twins have varying degrees of facial likeness: not them. They were near identical. Median had been looking for years. Years. And she had finally found him. But she hadn’t found her. Median had been looking for Menette for 25 years, and this human stain was the only clue she had—the only way to find her. The way Cyrus reacted to her presence had told her far more than she had wanted to know. Far more than she was prepared to learn. She had saved the text her sisters had sent. From the beginning, she knew he would be trouble for her little sister. This man that her sister was fawning over, this man who was married and having an affair with a girl barely in her 20s. Median knew deep, deep down that Cyrus Beauregard had something to do with her sister’s disappearance. The way he had grabbed her arm. . . She stared down the newly formed bruise and felt new hate rise inside of her. Cyrus was going to regret ever laying hands on either of them. Median was kept awake and fueled by the anger and the sorrow. The police had given up but not her. Not Median. She would never give up. Cyrus was going to pay, Median thought and twirled his business card between her fingers, one way or the other.

Chapter 5: A Reckoning

“Y ou, Cyrus Beauregard , will pay.” “Who are you?” Cyrus asked. He was on his knees in front of her, pleading with the ghost of the woman he had killed. His limbs were heavy, and he was so incredibly tired. He looked up at her, taking in her expression: a sadistic smile on her face. A smile he had never seen on Menette. “You're not Menette.” “No,” she said. “Took you long enough to realize, though.” “Who are you?” he repeated. “You know who I am. You know why I'm here, Cyrus.” Cyrus shook his head. “You know,” she repeated. “It was an accident,” he said. The ghost of Menette barked a laugh. “I'm sorry,” Cyrus said. That manic glint was back in her eyes, and that grin—lips pulled back over her teeth as if she would tear him apart at any given moment. “Sorry doesn't bring her back from the dead,” she said. “You know, for years I thought maybe she had just run away.” Cyrus waited, thinking—waiting for an opportunity to talk himself out of his mess. “I had thought that she was too ashamed of her past, of you. Too ashamed to be anywhere near any of us. I thought she had left. I had hoped,” she stressed the word, talking to the ceiling, her grin turned to a grimace. “I had hope. Until I

saw you in that photo. So, no. Sorry doesn’t—” she stopped herself and leveled her gaze at him. “You, Cyrus, are responsible in every way.” He wasn't looking at her anymore. He was staring at his hands on his knees. Watching tears flow freely, dripping onto his skin and sliding off into the carpet. He heard a click. The sound stilled his blood, turning it to ice. “Oh, unclench,” she said with a harsh laugh. The sound startled him, and he looked up at her, confusion on his tear-streaked face. “I’m not going to kill you, Mr. Beauregard.” “What?” he asked, a flutter of hope. “No, no, Cyrus, killing you would be too easy.” She waved the gun around carelessly, his eyes glued to the weapon as his tongue turned to sandpaper in his mouth. She crouched in front of him, retrieving a locket from around her neck. She toyed with the clasp and it popped open. He saw a photo of two beautiful women. Twins. “She was my whole world, Cyrus,” she said, fingering the photo of the woman and her sister. “It was—” “An accident. Yes, you said.” “Please,” Cyrus pleaded. She shook her head, aimed the gun at his face, and he flinched. “Did she plead for her life, Cyrus?” He shook his head. “What do you want? If you’re not going to kill me.”

She pointed to the open door with the gun hand, “I want you to run, Mr. Beauregard.” “What?” The manic glint in her eyes drove home her meaning. “Run,” she said wistfully. “And always be looking over my shoulder,” he completed the thought. “Death is too good for you,” she said. “I suggest you get going before the cops get here.” “Cops?” “For such a smart man, you really are exceptionally dense,” she laughed again, her fingers stroking the locket around her neck. “It’s the middle of the day on a weekday. Haven’t you wondered why your wife’s car is in the driveway, but she hasn’t come to check on the commotion?” Then the gears clicked into place. He paled. “No,” a rejection of the thought more than a denial of the truth. “I’m tearing down your precious palace, Mr. Beauregard. Run, and know I’ll be right behind you.”