Writing about Carlotta Asterom always lead to interesting occurrences—from uncontrollable laughter to apologizing for that laughter when Carlotta’s antics proved to be deadly. That’s probably why I kept coming back to her and my publisher couldn’t get enough. I had found my niche. In my latest novel, she plotted and performed the perfect crime. I knew she would work it out but my ease in writing it for her disturbed me. The publisher loved it and my novel would be out soon, so it was out of my hands. I wanted to enjoy a few months of letting ideas foment in my tired brain before leaping into the next writing project.
In the interest of relaxing, I started taking walks after lunch. On my tenth walk, I happened across a moving truck at the end of my block. Two burly movers paid no heed to me as they hefted huge boxes from the truck to the wide open front door. I carefully stepped around the hustle and bustle, intending to carry on with my walk. But motion drew my eye to the trunk of a black Kia Forte. As I looked at my new neighbor, she looked up and grinned at me. I blinked, shook my head to clear it and then took another look at her.
Tall and willowy, she had jet black hair falling in straight sheets over her shoulders then down to her waist. Dark eyes twinkled with humor or evil as she offered me a half smile that revealed canines which extended a little too far beyond their neighbors. I tried to smile back or continue my walk as if I hadn’t just stopped to stare at her, but my feet betrayed me and remained frozen to the spot.
Her smile widened as she finished grabbing items from her trunk—duct tape, lengths of rope, a shovel, and a hefty bag of quicklime. She set these next to her car nonchalantly and stepped forward to extend her hand.
I took it tentatively, hoping she didn’t notice my eyes widen as her clammy skin met mine. Then she spoke in a soft voice that begged me to allow myself to be hypnotized.
“Hello, new neighbor, I’m Carlotta Aston.”
My jaw dropped and my hand went limp. She raised an eyebrow as one corner of her mouth curled up in amusement.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“Um. No,” I barely recovered enough to protest as I stared at the character who had leapt from my novels fully formed.
“Oh, good,” she laughed softly, “I would hate to get off on the wrong foot with my neighbors.”
I nodded numbly as she looked at me expectantly. Finally, she cleared her throat, “So what should I call you the next time we meet?”
“Bella,” I croaked.
“That’s a lovely name, and it was lovely to meet you, but I should check on my movers.”
“Oh, yes. Sorry,” I mumbled.
“Enjoy your walk,” she waved her hand and turned away from me.
My traitorous legs finally propelled me forward. I picked up speed but not as much as the thoughts in my head that raced along with questions and concerns about my new neighbor. I resolved to try to avoid her as much as possible. I would have to completely rethink my walking routine to do that, but it would be worth it for my sanity.
~
I held to my goal of steering clear of my new neighbor for a whole day before my attitude changed. With her here right down the street I felt the inexorable promise of death. I tried to shake away my foolish imagination, but no amount of head shaking and verbal reassurance that my Carlotta and my new neighbor had nothing to do with each other failed to calm my troubled mind.
Thus I found myself slowly trailing her black Kia in my own nondescript grey Nissan Versa down our quiet little neighborhood streets. This went on for about a week before I started to lose interest. I had followed her to the local pet store for the third time that week, so I allowed myself to get distracted by an offer on my phone. When I looked up, her car was gone. Startled, I scanned every visible patch of road, but no sign of her remained.
A few days later, the front page informed our small town that one of our residents turned up in the local park, covered in quicklime. Had the unusual aroma not interested Mrs. Abernathy’s trio of bloodhounds, Mr. Harp’s body may have never been discovered. Someone buried him fairly deep, but Mrs. Abernathy couldn’t control all three of her little babies, so they managed to unearth him before she got them back under control.
Sadly, no one had any clue who would want to end Mr. Harp’s life. No one except me, but I wasn’t talking because around that time, I realized I wasn’t the one watching anymore. Carlotta was. So if anything happens to me, someone else needs to watch her.
~~~
Writing the canon of Carlotta’s story is in the runnings for National Novel Writing Month this year. As everyone in my high school creative writing class can attest to, no one can resist writing about her when a story prompt suggests you pick an existing character and put them in a spooky situation. Hope this little piece of fiction about fiction coming to life brightened your Halloween prep, but didn’t inspire you to homicide.
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