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- Herausgeber: WS
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: Pottersville's Dark Valentine
- Sprache: Englisch
Some towns have secrets. Some secrets have power. And some powers demand sacrifice.
In the quaint town of Pottersville, Angie, a former ballerina turned bartender, seeks a fresh start away from the demanding world of ballett.
However, her quest for independence encounters unexpected challenges during the town's legendary Valentine's Day festivities. As romance and mystique intertwine, Angie finds herself irrestibly drawn to a man she dosent truly love, struggling to maintain her autonomy.
With the towns's historical secrets slowly unraveling, Angie must confront the dark forces of an ancient tradition.
Can she reclaim her will or will she be forever caught ina supernatural struggle that dictates the heart?
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Seitenzahl: 337
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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Copyright © 2025 by Christopher Clark
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to real events, people, or places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons; living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Acknowledgments
Jonathan
By late January, the festive cheer of Christmas had become a distant memory. A new celebration loomed, promising joy and warmth to match the holiday season. Yet, for some, it stirred feelings of anxiety and unease instead of happiness. Jonathan’s room, dimly lit and cluttered, carried the sharp scent of open chip bags, worn clothes, and a faint hint of cologne. Neon-blue headphones on, he blocked out the world, immersed in the chaos of his online game—gunfire, bullets, booming explosions. Triumph had been his countless times, giving him the sense of a hero leading troops. But no matter how hard he fought, one challenge kept him stuck. Time flew, and Jonathan wasn’t pausing for a typical rest, like using the bathroom or grabbing a bite to eat. Instead, he switched to YouTube to learn new strategies. His plan: learn what he could fast and jump back into the game with new tactics. Just as he was getting comfortable, an advertisement popped up on the screen, breaking his train of thought.
The ad hijacked Jonathan’s screen. A smooth whiskey voice said,
“This Valentine’s Day, let your love blossom with the timeless elegance of our flowers.” It showed close-ups of the intricate details of roses, tracing the journey from the passionate kisses of young lovers to the tender embraces of long-standing companionship.
“At Heart of Flowers, we believe every petal tells a story, and every bouquet carries a message. Our hand-selected, vibrant flowers express the magic of ‘I love you’ in the most beautiful way. Choose from our range of fresh, passionate red roses to delicate pink tulips, each symbolizing the depth of your affection. Make this day unforgettable; let our flowers be the harbingers of your love. Say ‘I love you’ with every petal: Our Valentine’s roses speak volumes.”
He leaned closer as a YouTube video auto-played. A confident man with military poise promised to unlock the secrets of attraction. He looked and talked like he knew everything about masculine success.
“Tired of masturbating on Friday nights?” the man said, smirking with self-assurance.
“Cars have manuals, but figuring out women could take a Ph.D. in psychology. Both are thrilling adventures and just when you think you’ve figured it out, they give you a hell of a ride,” he said. Jonathan watched, captivated. Then the same rose ad cut in.
“Say ‘I love you’ with every petal.” The soothing voice floated through the speakers: “This Valentine’s Day, let your love blossom with the elegance of Heart of Flowers.” Jonathan sank back, loneliness deepening. Love always seemed unattainable for him: no relationships, no moments of affection. At twenty-seven, he found himself isolated, working a job that felt just okay but unfulfilling and questioning whether he was too old-fashioned for today’s fast-paced dating scene. In the colder months, from November to January, he’d enjoy Hallmark Christmas movies, loving their stories of chance meetings and romance. These movies were a comfort to him, so different from the impersonal interactions of dating apps or direct messages. His attempts to connect with someone in real life—a smile in a bookstore or a friendly greeting in a cafe—often ended in rejection or some other awkward exchange.
Jonathan never considered trying to date multiple women at once. He knew what he was looking for: his soulmate. Unfortunately, he had little success with dating apps; when he matched with someone, they would never respond to his messages.
In the real world, face-to-face, pursuing a meaningful conversation made his heart race and his palms sweat. Apps brought dates, but sparks never ignited, leaving him wondering.
As the ad’s countdown offered him the chance to skip it, he paused; the phrase “Say ‘I love you’ with every petal: Our Valentine’s roses speak volumes” was now stuck in his head. It reminded him of how alone he felt, especially compared to the romantic scenes in holiday movies. He wished he had someone to buy flowers for, just like in those films. He craved confidence, promised by the man in the video, hoping to turn learned affection into reality. His fingers trembled with anticipation over the keyboard. Jonathan absorbed every moment. His usual routine could wait; this video had his full attention.
“How to make girls lust after you?” The title alone had grabbed his attention, pulling him in. It reminded him of a brief encounter he once had in high school. A one-night stand that began with a quick hello and ended with a clumsy, lingering goodbye. Communication between them ceased. Instead of finding humor in the moment to defuse the tension or strengthen their connection, a silence as deep and harsh as a cave enveloped them. Despite the awkwardness, he found himself infatuated with her, but it was one-sided. Jonathan later realized it might have been the one time he was with someone he could have loved.
Jonathan was doubtful but curious as the man in the video claimed, “With my foolproof techniques, you’ll have any girl falling for you.” As the video neared its end, a dramatic change captured his attention. Once calm, the man’s green eyes now shone with a strange, crimson light—a detail Jonathan noticed in a heartbeat. Driven by curiosity, he leaned forward and clicked on the link below, which beckoned with the promise of forbidden knowledge enticing the viewer. The moment he clicked, an odd sensation swept over him, resembling the sharp prick of needles. The universe seemed to pause for a moment, holding its breath as it unveiled the secrets of attraction. Was this the key? Or a door to something unknown?
* * *
Jenna
Jennaslouched behind the reception desk, her chipped purple nail polish contrasting against the sleek surface of her phone. She flipped through profile after profile on the dating app; each blurred into the next, none catching her eye.
Just one decent match, that’s all I’m asking for, she thought. The sound of her swiping cut through the quiet room like a lone echo.
Her search wasn’t for love; she craved an escape, a spark of adventure, a break from routine. Lately, work was draining her. She became the go-to for extra tasks. When she started at the animal shelter, this seemed fine. Four years later, it had become predictable and exhausting. Single people can handle more work.They’re the ones who can stay late. It was the unspoken rule.
Trapped in this cycle of unfairness, Jenna’s determination grew.
Pottersville’s big holiday was approaching—a festive time for couples, but just another workday for single people like Jenna. She wasn’t looking for a romantic partner to shower her with colorful cupcakes. Instead, she needed someone she could use as a model to flaunt her excuses around work. A picture-perfect figure to help her escape the expectation of working through the holidays.
She rehearsed her excuse in her head: “Sorry, can’t cover Saturday. Big plans with the boyfriend,” hinting at trying for a baby or possibly a proposal. A minor lie, she thought, but the only explanation that would satisfy her boss and Karen.
She dreamed of a simple relationship, nothing too serious, just someone nice to spend time with. Dating for a month should be enough to show her coworkers she was serious. She could almost hear herself sharing news of her relationship’s quick progress, hinting at love, babies, and maybe even marriage. She saw these as keys to avoiding unwanted shifts. Her boss once said.
“No future, no point.”
Jenna made her strategy clear, yet navigating the path forward proved complicated. The irony struck her; in her quest for freedom, she would weave a web of half-truths just to enjoy her weekends off.
While sitting in the reception area, Jenna had a moment of clarity. While scrolling through dating profiles, she thought to herself. Being single doesn’t make me less valuable.I deserve the same respect as anyone else, regardless of their marital status. She looked back at her phone, still hoping to find someone who might give her a break from her demanding working hours.
A loud car alarm shattered the quiet of the night. Startling Jenna and sending her heart racing. She jumped up, a mix of fear and confusion rushing through her. Her breath fogged the window as she gazed out into the darkness.
Outside, snowflakes fell like angels descending, but her car’s alarm cut through the calm, crying out for attention. Jenna turned off the alarm. She scanned the empty parking lot on high alert. A fleeting shadow caught her eye, a deer perhaps, its eyes reflecting life before it vanished into the darkness.
Back inside, she went to check on the dogs. They were all locked in cages, and there were about a hundred different breeds. Among them was Jenna’s favorite: Bubbles. She found comfort in taking care of Bubbles, her curly-coated poodle. Despite her best efforts to focus on other things, she couldn’t help but wait for her phone to buzz.
When it vibrated with a notification, her mood lifted. It was a message from Bilal, her new match, who seemed adventurous and loved traveling, judging by his photos. Despite her usual shyness, Jenna took the initiative and messaged him first, suggesting they meet at Pike’s Bar. They agreed to meet on Wednesday. Jenna’s face lit up with a genuine smile.
As she settled back into her seat with Bubbles beside her, Jenna allowed herself to dream about the possibilities that Wednesday might bring—maybe even the start of a new chapter.
The air grew heavy and thick, and a sharp whistle sliced through the quiet, its eerie sound sending shivers down Jenna’s spine. The whistle was hypnotic yet frightening, wrapping its icy fingers around her heart and echoing all around her.
Jenna looked around the shadowy hallway, her heart pounding.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
A distant voice whispered,
“Jenna...”
Bubbles barked, his loud alarm added to the growing fear inside her.
The voice came again, this time closer.
“Jenna!” It sounded like it was coming from all directions, a haunting echo that made her spin around in a panic. All she saw was her own reflection in the window—her face ghostly white, her eyes wide with fright.
Bubbles’ barking intensified, echoing her fear. The whisper returned, curling around her name.
“Jenna!”
A rush of adrenaline drove Jenna toward the safety of the reception desk. Her breath was quick and scared.
As she approached, a dark shape emerged—vague and shadowy, more nightmare than reality. A deep, terrifying growl echoed, filled with despair.
The room closed in. The walls drawing nearer as the voice continued to haunt her. “Jenna…”
The darkness overtook her, leaving only her bright blue eyes visible, wide with the fear that now consumed her.
One Year Later
Pikes Bar
Pike’s Bar was buzzing, filled with single people looking for a connection—a partner, a match, perhaps even a future spouse. The peak season stretched from late January into the excitement of Valentine’s Day, when hopeful romantics packed the place. Post-February 14th, the excitement cooled down until summer brought back tourists.
The bar featured a pool table, dartboard, and a dance floor that buzzed with energy after a few drinks, transforming into a lively spot for flirting and mingling. Amidst the bustle, Angie stood out. Her impressive drink-making skills and smooth moves made her seem more like a magician than a bartender.
Nearby, a bucket marked
“Twirl for Tips: Where Every Pirouette Pays Off!” overflowed with cash, showing how much everyone adored her. The rules were simple: enough tips earned the crowd a “performance of a lifetime.” Angie donned black pointe shoes, captivating onlookers, as she balanced on one leg and spun gracefully. Her movements flowed with the music, blending mesmerizing ballet and mixology. She held a sparkling tequila shot under the lights, finishing with perfect timing. For a dramatic finale, she downed the shot and bit into a lime, adding a sultry flourish that enchanted the crowd. Cheers erupted, turning an ordinary night into something unforgettable.
Angie’s sister Alicia sat by the bar. While Angie was like a mysterious black swan with her bold and enchanting presence, Alicia was like a pure white swan, gentle. Together, they were a striking contrast: Angie, vibrant and outgoing; Alicia, quiet and reserved.
Under the pulsing lights and thumping music, they might have appeared similar with their long brown hair and sun-kissed skin that radiated warmth even in winter. Their intense eyes drew attention. But up close, their differences stood out. Angie thrived in the spotlight, shining as both bartender and performer, while Alicia felt increasingly detached from the noise and rowdy crowd.
Beside her, Mark exuded calm, his neat appearance and composed demeanor contrasting with the bar’s wild energy. His movements were fluid and slow. A peaceful expression rested on his face, and his eyes sparkled with quiet contentment.
They complemented each other, dressed in matching outfits with shiny hair reflecting light like stars in the night sky.
Angie took a break from the spotlight to swap her worn-out pointe shoes for plush black boots, a change from the strict discipline required by her ballet shoes. The ballet shoes, custom-made by a leading designer in London, hung like a sloppy wet cloth by the bar.
Angie handled an assortment of tequila bottles, each marked with either blue or red tape. She poured a round of shots, her movements still graceful. She brought the shots to where Alicia and Mark were sitting and offered a cheerful toast.
“Cheers!” Her charm was hard to resist, and even Alicia, hesitant at first, joined in.
“Cheers to the birthday girl!” A familiar voice called out as Romina raised her glass toward Angie. Romina, who had been Angie’s friend since childhood and was now her boss, beamed with a warm smile. The bar burst into cheers, lifting the mood even higher.
Romina returned to work, and Angie turned to Alicia.
“You’re making that face again,” Angie noted, her voice playful. “The one where you judge me with your eyes.”
“I’m just surprised at how you’re using your talent in new ways,” Alicia said.
“Just because I quit ballet doesn’t mean I’ve lost my charm.”
Mark asked why she had retired from ballet, especially when she held such talent.
“Another shot and I might share a little secret,” Angie said, pouring another shot with smooth, precise movements. “Although I am working, it’s still a cause for celebration.”
Mark reached for the shot, but Alicia snatched it, reminding him about their early morning plans. To-do list for the week: clean garage, shop groceries.
Mark tried to speak, his words slow at first.
“I’m lucky to have someone like you to keep me on track.”
Alicia’s expression softened, and she leaned in to kiss him, moved by his words.
“It’s Friday night; you can sleep when you’re dead,” Angie said, her voice full of excitement for the night ahead.
“You’re right, it is Friday night! And we’re going to make it count,” Alicia said enthusiastically.
“I’ve told you a hundred times—I’m not interested in dating right now.”
Unfazed, Alicia slid a gift across the table to Angie. Curious, Angie unwrapped it to find a rose under a glass dome lit by LED lights—a playful nod to Beauty and the Beast.
“Happy birthday.”
Angie’s mouth fell open, and she could only stare in stunned silence.
“Don’t worry, the petals won’t fall off or anything. But time is ticking, and guess what? Valentine’s Day is coming up soon. It’s the perfect time to find someone special.”
Angie sighed, feeling the pressure from her sister. “Ticking for what? I’ve only just turned thirty-three.”
“Ballet took all your time and energy, you said. Maybe being back isn’t so bad. Maybe you could even find true love!”
“True love?” She rolled her eyes. “Come on, Alicia. I’m not living in a fairy tale. And not everyone dreams of castles and princes.”
“Well, he won’t magically appear if that’s what you’re waiting for.”
“I’m not waiting for anyone,” Angie fired back. “And for the record, I never complained about ballet. Not once.”
Alicia’s tone became more caring yet slightly frustrated. “It’s not about fairy tales, and you’re not getting any younger, you know.”
“Can we just drop it and enjoy tonight without making it a matchmaking mission?”
Alicia sighed, her disappointment clear, but she nodded slowly. “I just want to see you happy.”
“You don’t have to babysit me; I’ll manage just fine on my own.”
“Living in that house can be lonely,” Alicia said.
They both fell silent, acknowledging their shared grief.
Angie broke the silence. “Well, I appreciate your concern, but I just got divorced from a long-term commitment, remember? I’m not ready to jump back into another one.”
Mark scratched his head and turned to Alicia. “You didn’t tell me your sister was once married.”
“She means the ballet, sweetheart,” Alicia explained with a patient smile.
“Oh, right?”
Alicia took another sip of her drink, her eyes sparkling as she started talking about Valentine’s Day. She was excited about her plans, including a reservation at the most popular place in town. The event promised to be lavish: a six-course meal, live music, and a costume party, all wrapped up in a silky ribbon of tradition. Tradition was a word Alicia flung around like a sword, paving a path for Angie to follow.
Although Alicia brimmed with excitement, Angie felt detached. “Tradition,” she muttered, the word bitter on her tongue. It had echoed endlessly on rehearsal floors, a tune she had fought to escape. While others found comfort in tradition, Angie saw it as a constraint—a rigid mold that resisted change, much like the ballet world’s slow progress toward diversity.
This resistance to change often implied that ballet excluded black bodies, limiting opportunities for dancers of color. However, Angie found inspiration in pioneers like Brooklyn Mack and Misty Copeland, who had broken these barriers. She remembered watching them as the first African American leads in a major production of Swan Lake. Their performance had challenged old norms, drawing a sold-out crowd and earning a standing ovation that called for change.
On that April evening at the Eisenhower Theater in the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, Angie was twenty-four as she witnessed the Washington Ballet make history. Misty Copeland and her dance partner, Brooklyn Mack, moved with a grace that seemed almost ethereal. Shadowy trees formed the backdrop of the scene, their twisted shapes adding a touch of mystery and darkness to the performance. Misty, adorned in a pristine white tutu embellished with silver accents, embodied the elegance and fragility of a swan. Her slender arms and delicate posture captured the essence of her character.
Her partner, a powerful figure in a royal blue velvet costume, contrasted her softness with his strength. His broad shoulders and muscular frame provided a sturdy anchor for her fluid movements. Their dance told a story of longing and despair, a silent conversation conveyed through every lift, every turn, every poignant touch.
In one heart-wrenching moment, they paused, their foreheads touching as if sharing a sorrowful secret. Misty’s hand rested tenderly on his chest, her fingers curling into his costume, while his hand cradled the back of her head, his expression one of anguish and love. The connection between them was obvious, a magnetic force that drew the audience into their world of beauty and pain.
The dark set piece emphasized the purity of their costumes and the intensity of their emotions, creating a striking contrast. This frozen moment showcased ballet’s power to convey deep human emotions without words. The applause celebrated more than their skill; it was a call to break down outdated barriers limiting diversity in ballet.
Angie told Alicia she wasn’t interested in celebrating Valentine’s Day. She would rather work at the bar, earn ridiculous tips, and perform. The bar offered her a sense of freedom.
Angie glanced toward the pool table, where a bearded man with glasses stood. Tattoos adorned his arms, and he wore a white V-neck T-shirt.
“Look at that guy,” Alicia said, nudging her. “Looks promising, right?”
Angie rolled her eyes after seeing his twirling mustache.
Alicia laughed, a knowing look in her eyes. “What’s wrong with him?”
Angie poured a drink for a customer as Alicia pointed across the room. “Forget the tattoo guy. What about him? Maybe an artist—deep and thoughtful. Seems like your type.”
Angie gave a sarcastic smile. “Because all artists torture themselves emotionally, right? Just what I need. No thanks, I’ve had enough of troubled souls.”
Leaning in, Alicia lowered her voice. “How about that one? He looks refined, a lawyer?”
“Or perhaps a doctor,” Mark said. Alicia grinned, feeling supported by her partner’s suggestion.
“Yes, a doctor! He likely earns well and commands respect among his friends.”
“He’s old enough to be my grandpa.”
Alicia sighed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”
Angie stared at the artificial rose under the glass dome. What once seemed harmless now felt like a heavy symbol. It represented her sister’s expectations—a ticking clock marking shame, unmet desires, missed milestones, and the fear of remaining unmarried. What appeared as a gift was a time bomb, ready to detonate her emotions.
As the night wore on, Angie watched as Alicia leaned into Mark’s shoulder, her fingers intertwined with his. Mark’s thumb traced small circles on the back of Alicia’s hand, and he planted a soft kiss on her forehead. Their eyes met, and they shared a private smile.
Would she ever have what they had? Whatever enchantment they seemed to possess appeared so effortless. But she understood that love was never that easy. It demanded effort and commitment. She had bid farewell to her beloved mother and left behind the career she cherished. She doubted she had the strength to do it again—to open up, give, receive, and to love once more.
Mark finished his drink. “Should we go for another round?”
“Don’t you think it’s getting late?” Alicia said.
Mark nodded.
Alicia turned to Angie for one last attempt, explaining she’d gone to the Sky Bloom every year since turning eighteen—it was a tradition.
“Angie is tied up that night,” Romina said, jumping in to help. “We’re short-staffed and all that.”
Alicia curled her lip and narrowed her eyes. She never got along with Romina and had only engaged socially since Angie returned.
A sharp, electronic chirp cut through the air, emanating from Alicia’s wrist. Her fingers darted to the sleek pink smartwatch, tapping the screen to silence it. She locked eyes with Mark, her eyebrows raised. He nodded almost imperceptibly in response.
Alicia pushed her chair back, the legs scraping against the hardwood floor. “Well, I think we should get going,” she said, reaching for her purse.
Angie’s brow furrowed. “It’s only eleven,” she said.
Alicia stifled a yawn, her eyes heavy with fatigue. “We need to get some rest; we’ve got an early start tomorrow.”
They exchanged warm hugs and pressed through the crowd, weaving between laughter and lively chatter. Angie stood rooted in place, her gaze following them as they walked away. The couple’s matching navy jackets—soft wool wrapped around them like a shared cocoon—in that moment, seemed to embody the very essence of soulmates, seamlessly moving as one through the bustling crowd.
Angie turned to Romina, thanking her for steering the conversation away from Alicia.
“Have you told her yet?”
Angie shook her head.
“She won’t be happy, you know.”
“Why do you think I’m procrastinating?”
“Since when does anyone listen to their younger sibling?”
She then put an arm around Angie’s shoulders and gestured toward the bar, making a bold statement. “You know, Angie, guys are like cheap beer.”
Amused and curious, Angie played along. “Oh really? How’s that?”
“Simple,” Romina explained. “They’re everywhere, easy to find, and you can’t always trust their quality. Plus, they often leave an unpleasant aftertaste.”
“And what about women?”
Romina’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Ah, women are the aged whiskey of the world. Refined, and they get better with age—a rare treat that’s always worth the splurge.
“The key difference is this.” She gestured to a man in a yellow beanie. He sat in a dimly lit corner at the far end of the bar. “See that guy over there? He’s like the cheap beer you pick up on a whim.”
Then she looked at a group of women, her gaze landing on a stunning young woman. Cascading waves of platinum blonde hair framed her face. High cheekbones sculpted her features, leading down to full, inviting lips that held a hint of a secret smile.
“Now, she’s your top-shelf whiskey. You savor that, appreciate it, and never regret spending more.”
The blonde woman tucked her lengthy hair behind her ears. Her blue eyes caught Romina’s gaze and she smiled.
“How about if I just upgrade my taste to craft beer status and avoid the unpleasant aftertaste?” Angie said.
”Well, it’s your loss,” Romina said as she shifted to fiddling with the pendant on her necklace. “I’m sorry I forgot to buy you a gift,” she said. “I feel like a terrible friend.”
Angie said it was fine, and it was. Romina took off the necklace and placed it around Angie’s neck.
Angie looked at the necklace—a medallion shaped like an eye decorated with colorful zirconia stones. Romina claimed it protected against “bad vibes” and “the narrow-mindedness still lurking in 2024.”
“Does it work?” Angie asked.
“So far, no one’s dared to criticize my taste in women,” Romina said.
Angie gave her a warm hug. Romina went back to her duties behind the bar.
By the pool table, the tattooed man flashed a charismatic smile at Angie. Leaning against the table, he lined up his shot, his gaze locked on hers. Angie responded with a polite yet distant smile.
In a spontaneous move, the man raised his glass to hers—an unexpected gesture hinting there might be more to this encounter.
“Can I get you another?” Angie said as she approached the solitary man in the yellow beanie hat.
He stood apart from the couples kissing passionately nearby. The man seemed shy and reserved, making Angie wonder if he aimed to build enough confidence to approach a woman. Yet, his choice of a nonalcoholic drink suggested a different intention.
Angie noticed the blue umbrella in his drink—a subtle sign she used to distinguish non-drinkers from alcohol drinkers. It was a trick that helped her navigate the busy bar more smoothly. His slouched posture straightened as Angie approached the table. He shook his head in quiet gratitude as she cleared away the empty glasses.
“You should sit by the bar sometime if you want company,” she said. She observed the loneliness in his eyes and thought she could play wingman. A faint smile pulled at the corners of his lips. As she turned away, Angie’s gaze landed on the tattooed man with the twirling mustache. He approached the bar.
“Excuse me,” he began, his voice a blend of charm and earnestness.
“I couldn’t help but notice the unique décor of this place. I’m new in town, researching architectural anomalies. Does this bar have any historical secrets?”
“I’m not the one you should ask,” she said, nodding toward Romina, who seemed deep in conversation—or perhaps flirting—with the blonde whiskey woman.
“She seems occupied,” he said.
“But I don’t mind talking with you,” he added, adjusting his large glasses. Angie explained the bar was Romina’s, who had worked there far longer than she had.
“If there’s any history clinging to these walls, she’d probably know.”
His interest then shifted to Angie. “Are you from Pottersville?”
“Sort of,” she said with a small shrug.
“What does ‘sort of’ mean?”
“It means I was born here but didn’t stay long enough to learn any historical secrets that might interest you.”
“You’re in luck, then. I know quite a few,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “I’m doing my PhD on how architectural anomalies in small towns intertwine with local history and folklore. The Heart Binder statue in Pottersville seems to be a perfect case study.”
“That old thing?” Angie remarked. “It’s been around forever,”
“For someone born here, although not raised, what can you tell me about it?”
“Not much to tell, really. It’s nice to look at, I suppose.”
He smiled as if she’d touched on something deeper. “It’s actually unique—not your typical bronze or stone. It’s cast from an unknown dark metallic alloy that catches the sunlight during the day and the moonlight at night.”
“That’s why you’re interested in the statue? Because of its ethereal glow?” Angie asked, raising a brow.
The man leaned forward, his interest clearly piqued. “Actually, what drew me to the statue initially was its unique astronomical positioning. It’s not just an ordinary statue; it’s aligned precisely with celestial bodies during key dates. Most fascinating is its alignment on Valentine’s Day.”
“Valentine’s Day? Really?”
“Yes,” the man continued, his eyes alight with excitement.
“Take Machu Picchu in Peru. The Intihuatana stone is believed to have been designed as an astronomical clock or calendar by the Incas based on the sun’s position during solstices. And the Karnak Temple in Egypt. The alignment of this temple allows the sun to line up with its entrance at certain times of the year. This alignment occurs during the solstice when the back of the temple lights up from the sunlight entering its front. The Heart Binder statue aligns perfectly with Venus at sunset on Valentine’s Day. Historically, Venus is linked to love and beauty, making this alignment no coincidence. It suggests that the statue was intentionally placed to harness or celebrate the energy of love on this specific day. Pretty interesting, right?”
“If you say so.”
“I’d be happy to tell you more over coffee sometime whenever you’re free. I’m Ralph.”
After introducing herself, she noticed his empty glass and asked, “So, what will it be, Ralph?” She gestured toward the different tap beers. Ralph glanced at the “Twirl for Tips: Where Every Pirouette Pays Off!” bucket and replied, “How about another performance?”
She looked at the half-empty bucket and smiled. “Only a full bucket gets you a performance.” She raised her hands. “I’m sorry, but those are the rules.” She excused herself as she tended to another customer.
As the music blared, a sharp whistle pierced the bar noise, catching Angie’s attention. It wasn’t part of the music—or was it? The sound threaded through the air, creating an otherworldly resonance. It seemed to call from a deeper, unseen place. Just as quickly, the whistle faded.
A sudden warmth radiated from her necklace, the heat spreading across her skin. Angie instinctively reached up to touch it, puzzled by the sensation. She shrugged it off, convincing herself it was just the room’s temperature affecting the metal.
As Angie cleared the tables, a strange presence prickled at her senses as if unseen eyes watched from an unknown vantage. She glanced over her shoulder but found nothing out of the ordinary—just inebriated patrons mingling and swaying on the dance floor. She moved to the next table.
She looked up and saw a dark figure with sinister red eyes. It glared at her from the crowd, like a lens flare cutting through the darkness. Glasses clinked, and conversations faded, replaced by a low, ominous hum as if the figure emitted a dark aura.
Angie’s skin prickled with goosebumps. She jerked her hand and bumped into Ralph. Bottles smashed on the wooden floor. The pungent stench of alcohol filled the air, mixing with the musty scent of old wood and the metallic tang of shattered glass.
She quickly returned her gaze and saw the figure had vanished. Ralph asked if she was okay. It took a second for her to settle into the moment, but she assured him she was fine.
Ralph helped her pick up the shards of glass. One shard cut a shallow wound on her finger, and she instinctively licked the wound. As the metallic taste of blood touched her tongue, a flood of memories washed over her. The relentless hours of practice, the blisters, the bruises, the constant pressure to be perfect—it all came rushing back with that single drop of blood. She remembered why she had quit ballet.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Ralph asked, concern clear in his eyes.
She nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, it’s just a cut. Thank you for helping.”
Ralph smiled. “Anytime. You seemed lost in thought.”
“The sight of blood... A reminder of how hard I had to push myself in the past.”
“It’s important to take care of yourself.”
She nodded, grateful for his empathy. Letting go can sometimes be painful, even when it comes to love.
Ralph agreed. For a moment, they stood there in silence, the connection between them growing stronger. The shared understanding of hardship and resilience formed a bond that neither had expected.
A gentle ray of sunlight slipped through the curtains, filling the room with a tranquil, warm glow. Glancing at the clock—9:59 a.m.—Angie enjoyed the rare luxury of waking without an alarm. There were no ballet practices waiting, no early-morning routines for a demanding day ahead. She briefly savored the absence of her usual six a.m. stretches and the strict technique classes at eight a.m. There was no ten a.m. repertoire class, where being late wasn’t an option.
The freedom felt exhilarating. But as silence settled, it felt less like liberation and more like a shift off-balance, like a dancer teetering on the edge of control. Was this relief a taste of new freedom or quiet acceptance of defeat?
A man’s voice slurred under the blankets, reminding her she wasn’t alone. Angie leaped out of bed and parted the curtains to invite the sun into her bedroom.
As the light flooded the room, Angie held her breath. She looked at her mistake sprawled out on her bed. The sudden spotlight revealed his stoic face, once concealed under dimly lit ceilings and the influence of loud music and pheromones. Was it regret that washed over her—or something worse? Either way, the urge to shower off the night overwhelmed her. Her mind racing, she quickly slipped into her underwear and an oversized T-shirt. She needed to find her footing, to reclaim some semblance of control.
“Morning.” A sly smile played on his lips.
“Morning.” Her smile felt strained, like a painful ballet pose held too long. She was already planning her next steps, a mental exit choreography.
“Listen, about last night—”
“—It was amazing.”
The silence stretched, thick with expectation.
“Leave if you want.” Her eyes scanning the stranger like a ballerina checking the stage.
Ralph seemed to sense the shift, trying to salvage the moment with charm. “How about that coffee?”
Angie narrowed her eyes.
“I didn’t. What I meant was—I could show you around. I bet a lot has changed since you left. This town offers more than it seems. Cafe’s, scenic spots, even local secrets—I’ve got it all mapped out.”
As he rambled about the quaint charm of the town, he tried to make it all seem alluring. Angie had toured the world, attended galas and New York Fashion Week, and experienced all the glitz and glamour while pursuing a burning passion, yet she still found herself miserable. She doubted a tour around a less exotic venue with a man she wasn’t interested in would be as alluring as he tried to make it sound.
“This was just fun, Ralph.”
“Fun you want to repeat? Or fun, that’s a one-timer?”
She nodded. “Just fun.”
Ralph’s smile faltered, but he quickly recovered. “I see.”
His voice was low.
“Well, can’t blame a guy for trying, right?”
A resigned look settling on his face as he gathered his clothes. Angie turned away, giving him privacy to dress. She busied herself by tidying up the room, her movements mechanical and detached.
A soft click echoed through the house as the front door opened. Someone was inside.
“I thought you said you lived alone?”
“I do.”
“Then who just walked in?”
Could it be Alicia? But Alicia had “things to do.” Angie grabbed her phone to check for any missed texts or calls that might clarify her sister’s unexpected visit, but there were none. It couldn’t be Romina either; she didn’t have a spare key. Angie was certain she had locked the door before going to bed.
A knot tightened in her stomach. Each step felt precarious, balancing on the tips of her toes. The sounds of movement downstairs pierced the silence, heightening the tension.
Should she call the police? The idea seemed far-fetched, almost absurd. Pottersville maintained a reputation for safety, rarely experiencing the type of crime that made national headlines. Yes, there were small-town problems—drug use, burglaries, scams, and the occasional assault. Most burglaries were quick smash-and-grabs at local stores, snatching jewelry and the like. Home invasions, especially in broad daylight, were unheard of. Perhaps things had changed since Angie had last lived here. Her neighborhood was tightly knit, houses lined up side by side, none of which screamed “luxury” or seemed like likely targets for theft. The house was a simple, two-story structure, its once-vibrant green paint now chipped and fading. Fresh paint framed the windows, relics of an earlier time, to mask their age. It was just an ordinary home.
She wondered how she would handle an assailant without Ralph. She could always scream for help, hoping the nearby neighbors would hear her and come help.
Ralph grabbed his sturdy leather boots off the floor, ready to use them as a weapon. He stood in front of Angie, shielding her from any potential danger. The sound of footsteps echoed through the house, coming closer and closer. Angie clutched onto Ralph’s arm and tried to remain calm. She moved in, seeking peace and solitude, not a trespasser.
As the footsteps drew nearer, she could hear something sizzling in the kitchen and the faint hum of an oven turning on. Her mind raced with possibilities. Could it be an intruder who was also cooking a meal? It was a ridiculous thought.
Moving as quietly as they could, Ralph and Angie descended the stairs, each step measured like water dripping slowly from a faucet—careful, deliberate. The tension in the air was palpable, a stark contrast to the comforting scent of fresh basil wafting up from the kitchen below. Angie’s stomach growled involuntarily at the familiar aroma; it was her sister’s famous omelet. Relief washed over her, a glimmer of normalcy piercing the fog of fear.
As they reached the landing, her sense of safety remained absent. Unease clung to her like a shadow, a persistent feeling that something was still wrong, a missing piece. She remembered the dark figure, red eyes haunting her. Trick of shadows or reality? She couldn’t tell.
They moved toward the kitchen. The scent of basil and eggs grew stronger, inviting but unable to calm the doubt gnawing at Angie. The familiar aroma might have been comforting, but last night’s violation still pulsed through her veins. The closer they got to the source, the more she questioned what—or who—could have been the intruder at the bar.
