The chapter below is from the sci-fi, triller book Fear is in the Air by Eva Newermann
Little Haiti, Florida
My parents are dead. A man called Sunny killed them at our home.
I’m happy to say that the Sun doesn’t shine on his brutal face anymore. I killed the bastard.
We lived in Little Haiti in Miami. My dad was a salesman, and on the road a lot. He was a happy man, always with a good story to tell. He never got tired of telling people the story of where my name Ewa came from. This is his story.
“The Boss” (that’s what he used to call Mom) “and I went on our honeymoon to Hawaii.
“One evening we were having dinner next to a woman who was celebrating her 100th birthday. She looked great to be that old and from the white look of her skin and hair, we could tell she was an albino.
“After a while she invited us over to her table. We all got a glass of champagne and strange things started happening. She took both my hands in hers and it felt like electricity was going through my whole body.
“She said with a crooked smile. ‘I can feel you are a good person. If you follow my advice, nine months from now you two will have a beautiful baby girl.’ My wife raised her champagne glass, ‘I’ll drink to that!’
“The old lady took out a little silver bottle, put it in my pocket and whispered in my ear, ‘Drink this before you make love tonight.’
“Then she took my wife’s hand. My wife jumped in her seat and I realized she was feeling this weird electricity too. The old lady gave her a silver bottle, the same as mine, then whispered something in her ear; her face got flushed and she laughed.
“The rest of the evening we were all drinking champagne, but I took it easy; after all, I was driving us home that night.
“The old woman kept ‘charging’ us every half hour and it felt good.
“When we finally got on our way we were excited and amorous. We saw this beautiful beach and it just seemed like a terrific idea to drink whatever it was in the bottles and imitate Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster in ‘From Here to Eternity.’
“The content of the bottles tasted just like water and we kept them.” Now, his finger would point to our bookshelf where we all could see the two mysterious silver bottles standing.
He continues. “When we left the beach we saw a big sign saying, Ewa Beach – Welcome Back.” At this point Dad would put me on his knee and ruffle my hair, saying, “Nine months later Ewa was born.”
When I was eight years old we got a kitten and a puppy. Dad, who was a big James Bond fan, named my brother James and the cat, Pussy Galore. The dog, a Doberman, we named Killer.
Dad thought getting a watchdog was a good idea since we lived in a high crime area.
Yeah, Killer turned out to be a great watchdog. We would know every time somebody approached the house, because Killer would run and hide behind the sofa! Of course, by that time we really loved him, so we couldn’t get a new dog.
Pussy Galore, with her gray and white fur, was my favorite. She liked to sleep in my bed every night.
My dad was always playing pranks on my mom. The one I remember best happened when she was out one day buying groceries. I guess I was about seven years old.
“Ewa!” my dad called. “Let’s have some fun when mom gets back!”
He came running with a large white sheet and scissors in his hands. He started cutting holes into the sheet. With his red fuzzy curls bouncing up and down on his head, his large eyebrows, also red, he looked like a comical troll to me.
James joined us. My dad was struggling to get the sheet over his head.
“Ewa, get me the biggest kitchen knife you can find!”
He pulled one of the kitchen chairs close to the front door.
When I handed him the huge knife, all we could see was his green eyes, sparkling through the holes in the sheet. He jumped up on the chair and the sheet was so long it reached all the way down to the floor.
“Mom should be back any minute now,” he whispered. “Let’s just hope she hasn’t bought anything that will break, because she will be so spooked she’ll drop everything.”
I could hear him clucking behind the sheet.
Suddenly there were footsteps on the porch. When they stopped outside the door, my dad threw open the door, with the large knife raised high over his head he screamed, “ARRGHHH!”
Outside, two nuns, in their black and white habits and bearing a collection cup, started screaming louder than my dad.
Their tin cup went flying into the air. All the coins were scattered when the cup hit the porch. They started running, still screaming, down the road.
My dad, now down off the chair, lifting the sheet around his waist, knife still in hand, was yelling: “Wait! Wait! This is not what it looks like!”
He was waving the knife, running after them.
“Come back! Come back! I’ll give you some money!”
The screaming nuns turned a corner. My dad stumbled and fell. James and I were standing there paralyzed, openmouthed, on the porch, not believing our eyes.
Of course, this story was told, repeatedly, down through the years. My mom would always shake her head and tell my dad how erratic he was, but she would be cracking a smile, too.
My dad did finally track down the nuns. He apologized and donated some money to their church.