Preemptive Strike
The first time Phyllis Pollitt went to church services with her parents rather than attending Sunday school with the other children it was Palm Sunday, and she was just twelve years old. Too young to fully understand Father Verdon's sermon, the little girl soon grew restless. Knowing she had to remain sitting quietly in the pew, she examined the interior of the building from her seat. She looked at the items on the altar and then read the list of hymns for the day's service on the wall. The most interesting sights by far were the stained glass windows, a dozen in all, six on each side of the church.
Eventually, however, even the beauty of these colorful works of art failed to hold her attention. As was her habit in school when her lessons bored her, Phyllis let her imagination take control of her mind. She pretended the church was filled not with regular Sunday worshipers but with friends and relatives come to St. Michael's to attend her wedding. The little girl envisioned herself as a young woman walking down the aisle on the arm of her father, who had somehow managed not to age.
Since she had no way of knowing who she would eventually marry, the girl concentrated not on the groom but on the details of the setting. In her mind's eye, she saw the full-skirted, white lace wedding dress and tulle bridal veil, similar to one she dressed her Barbie doll in. Her blond tresses were piled on top of her hair in an elaborate hairstyle, and she wore her mother's pearls around her neck and her grandmother's diamond studs in her earlobes. In her hands she carried a bouquet of red roses and white carnations.
Phyllis was so enthralled by her romantic daydream that she failed to notice Father Verdon had given the benediction and people were exiting the church.
"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," her father teased her. "It's time to go home."
"I wasn't sleeping," she explained. "I was thinking about my wedding day."
The little girl's parents exchanged a look that was a mixture of surprise and amusement.
"I didn't realize you were that serious about the boy in your math class. You'll have to bring him home to dinner some night so that your mother and I can meet him."
"I'm not going to marry him!" Phyllis exclaimed, her cheeks blushing from embarrassment. "I'm not going to marry anyone until I'm old—eighteen at least."
Yet despite her early fascination with all the trappings of a church wedding, Phyllis did not meet her future husband until she was nearing her thirtieth birthday. That was long after she had graduated college and began her career as a school librarian. By that time, her once blond hair had turned a sandy brown color, and all the early signs that the cute, precocious little girl would grow up to become an attractive and vivacious woman were proved wrong. At twenty-nine, she looked like a librarian—or at least the stereotypical representation of one.
Although plain in appearance and bookish and reserved in demeanor, Phyllis Pollitt nonetheless remained a romantic at heart. She still longed to dress like a princess and walk down the aisle of St. Michael's on her father's arm. When Wesley Applegate, a thirty-two-year-old CPA who did her father's taxes, proposed to her after two years of dating, she promptly said, "yes." There was no grand passion in the couple's relationship since Wesley also fit a stereotype, one of the dull, conservative accountant. However, the two were compatible, and there was no reason to believe that they would not have a long and happy union.
* * *
"This is a nice, sensible dress," Anna Pollitt, the bride's mother, pointed out when she and her daughter went shopping for the wedding gown.
"Sensible?" Phyllis echoed with distaste. "It's ugly! It looks more like a slip than a dress."
"Don't be silly! It's sleek and stylish but not too revealing. It's perfect for someone your age."
"I'm not a senior citizen, Mom. It's perfectly acceptable for a thirty-one-year-old woman to wear a dress with some flair and old-fashioned glamour. I'm looking for a wedding gown with lots of lace trim, seed pearls and ruffles."
"Don't you read the fashion magazines? No one gets married looking like a Disney princess anymore. All that bling is out."
"Frankly, I don't care about what anyone else is wearing. This is my day, my one opportunity to be the belle of the ball, the center of attention. When I enter that church, I'm going to wear the dress I want, not one some overpaid designer decides women should wear."
God help me! Anna thought, rolling her eyes in exasperation. My normally levelheaded daughter is turning into Bridezilla.
Having gone to every bridal shop in a one-hundred-mile radius, Phyllis still had yet to find the gown of her dreams. With the wedding date getting closer, she was becoming frantic.
"I've even looked at dresses on eBay," she confessed to the school's drama teacher at lunch one day. "But I haven't been able to find something nice in my size."
"If you don't object to a used gown, you ought to look in a vintage clothing store. There's one in the city that has a huge inventory. I've gotten many clothes there to use as costumes in my productions."
"Does it have wedding dresses?"
"It did the last time I was there. They might be gone now, but it doesn't hurt to look. Besides, the owner is a seamstress who offers alterations on garments that don't fit."
"What have I got to lose?"
On Saturday morning, Phyllis took a bus into the city. At the bus depot, she boarded the subway to the theater district. From the station, it was a short walk to Miranda's Memories. Upon entering the vintage clothing store, she was surprised at the size of it. She had expected a retail space equivalent in size to that of a Good Will or Salvation Army thrift store, certainly not a shop with the square footage of a multi-department supermarket.
Rather than divide the available inventory into size groups (children, juniors, plus size) or even men's wear and women's wear, the items were separated by time period. Entire sections were devoted to Edwardian, Victorian and Antebellum eras as well as styles of the Twenties, Thirties, Forties, Fifties and Sixties. Under Miranda's roof one could find a Civil War uniform, an Elizabethan gown complete with starched ruff collar or a Victorian dress with an authentic bustle.
As Phyllis's eyes scanned the shop, a rather bizarre looking young woman approached her. Although the black dress she wore may have represented a page from the past, there was nothing vintage about her tattoos, body piercings or the black hair with spikes of red, purple and blue.
"I'm Miranda," the proprietor introduced herself. "Is there something I can help you with?"
"A friend told me I might be able to find a wedding gown here."
Miranda's eyes widened as she stared at the customer, and the irises changed color from green to blue to lavender. Phyllis assumed she wore special contact lenses, similar to the old mood rings that were the fad in the Seventies.
"I think I have just the dress for you," the young woman announced as her eyes returned to their original color.
The bride-to-be seriously doubted the oddly attired store owner would share her taste in fashion, but she followed her to the rear of the store nonetheless.
"How's this one?" Miranda asked, removing an elaborate gown from the rack.
Now it was Phyllis's eyes that widened—although they remained the same shade of brown as before.
"It's absolutely gorgeous! Lace, sequins, bows, seed pearls, high neck, puffy sleeves: it has everything I want. It's as though you read my mind. But will it fit me? It looks a little small."
"If it doesn't, I can always let the seams out. Why don't you try it on?"
Surprisingly, the dress fit like it was custom tailored for her.
* * *
Later that night, when she prepared for bed, Phyllis felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
No more anxiety, she thought as she laid her head on her pillow. I can look forward to my wedding day without stress.
Sadly, her sleep was not as untroubled as she had hoped. Her dream, although not a nightmare in the true sense of the word, left her with an uneasy feeling the following morning. When she appeared at the breakfast table, her mother commented on her appearance.
"You look tired," Anna Pollitt said, placing a cup of coffee in front of her daughter. "Are you still worried about all the wedding arrangements?"
"No," Phyllis replied. "I woke up from a disturbing dream around three in the morning, and then I couldn't fall back to sleep."
"Didn't I tell you not to watch all those true crime shows on ID? Honestly, I can't see how you bear them. They're about nothing but murder, abductions and torture."
"It wasn't that kind of dream."
"No?"
"No. I dreamt about my wedding day."
"Oh, that's all!" her mother said with relief, automatically chalking her daughter's mental state up to pre-wedding jitters.
"I was standing on the steps of St. Michael's, wearing my wedding dress. There was no one else around, not you or Daddy, not Father Verdon, not any of the ushers or wedding guests, not even any cars passing by on the road. I opened the door to find that the church was vacant. All the pews were empty. It was as though I were the only person alive on the face of the planet."
"And then what?"
"Nothing. I woke up."
"I'm no psychiatrist, dear, but it seems perfectly normal to me for a bride to have a few sleepless nights as the big day approaches especially since Wesley is away on a business trip. Maybe your subconscious mind feels that he's abandoned you just before the wedding."
"I suppose you're right," Phyllis said and then proceeded to finish her coffee and pour herself another cup.
Thank God for caffeine! she thought, as she buttered a toasted English muffin. Without it, I don't think I can make it through the day.
By midmorning, she needed more coffee to stay awake. Thankfully, the new guidance counselor had put on a fresh pot in the teacher's lounge. As she was finishing her second cup, the drama teacher entered the room.
"Did you have any luck finding a dress at Miranda's?" she asked.
"Yes, I did!" Phyllis replied excitedly. "She had exactly what I wanted. I can't thank you enough for telling me about that shop."
"It has everything, doesn't it? From Roman togas to MC Hammer pants. You should see the place around Halloween. It's wall-to-wall people."
"I can well imagine."
The librarian did not add that she thought the bizarrely attired Miranda looked like a perfect advertisement for Halloween. She did, after all, work at a high school and had gotten used to outlandish styles.
Thanks to another large cup of coffee with her lunch, Phyllis managed to stay awake at her desk throughout the afternoon. On her way back home, she had the urge to go through Starbucks' drive-thru for yet one more cup, but she feared caffeine that late in the afternoon would prevent her from falling asleep later in the evening.
Hoping to make up for the sleep she missed the previous evening, Phyllis went to bed an hour earlier than usual. As was her nightly custom, she picked up a book from off her bedside table and began to read. After only three pages, she felt her eyes grow heavy. Marking her place, she laid the book down and turned off the light.
The exhausted librarian no sooner closed her eyes than the dream began. Again, she was wearing the dress and veil she purchased at Miranda's Memories. She turned and looked around; there was no one there. The heavy oak door of St. Michael's was closed, and she trembled as she reached out her hand and opened it. It took several moments for her eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the church.
Where is everyone? she asked herself. Why aren't Wesley and his brother waiting with the minister? Wait. What's that?
Phyllis squinted her eyes and took a few steps forward until she was close enough to clearly see the large object in front of the altar. Her hand went to her mouth to stifle a scream, but she abruptly woke up.
"Surely no bride dreams of seeing a coffin before her wedding!" she told herself as she reached across the bed and turned on the lamp.
Phyllis remained sitting upright in her bed, with the light on, until she finally fell asleep some time after four in the morning. When her alarm went off at six, she slept through it. Thankfully, her mother woke her up in time for her to make it to work by eight—but not until she drank three large cups of strong coffee for breakfast.
* * *
With little more than a week until her wedding day, Phyllis was desperate for a good night's sleep. She tried home remedies such as drinking warm milk with honey, relaxing in a hot bath, listening to soothing music and taking melatonin. Nothing worked, however. Finally, she purchased an over-the-counter sleep aid.
"Normally, I wouldn't dream of taking these things," she confessed to Wesley, who had finally returned home from his West Coast business trip. "But I really need to get some sleep. Lately, I go through the day like a zombie. Yesterday, I ran a red light and wasn't even aware of it until I heard a car horn blaring at me."
"You've got to be more careful," her fiancé warned. "You don't want to get into an accident, do you?"
"I'm sure once we're married and the wedding and reception are behind us, my sleeping habits will return to normal."
Phyllis did not tell Wesley about the dreams that plagued her sleep every night. He was such a sensible, unimaginative man with his feet firmly planted on the ground that he would never understand how she would be distressed by mere dreams. He would no doubt agree with her mother that she watched too many true crime dramas on television.
The night before the wedding the couple held a rehearsal dinner at the same restaurant where Wesley had proposed. It was a rare moment of sentimentality from the groom.
"Tomorrow's the big day," he said when he dropped his soon-to-be bride off at her mother's house afterward.
Thank God! she thought. By this time tomorrow night, it will all be over.
After showering and dressing for bed, she took two of the sleeping pills. The dream, which had been progressing each night, last ended with Phyllis's hands on the lid of the coffin. Just when she was about to raise it and finally discover who or what was inside, she woke up. She feared that if the dream returned that night, she would open the lid and reveal the coffin's contents.
The sleeping pills did the trick. The bride woke up the following morning, having slept peacefully and soundly for more than ten hours without waking. Furthermore, she had no recollection of having dreamed during the night. After a bowl of cold cereal and only a single cup of coffee, she began preparing for her wedding.
Promptly at seven o'clock, her cousin Helena, a beautician, showed up at her house with blow dryer and curling iron in hand. While the bride was at the sink washing her hair, the florist deliveryman arrived with her bouquet.
So far, everything is on schedule, Phyllis thought, mentally crossing her fingers that her luck would not abruptly change.
Throughout the busy morning, her eyes kept darting toward the clock. She and her father were due at St. Michael's at eleven.
"You can put your dress and veil on now," Helena instructed. "Then I'll make the final touches to your hair."
As the tiara from her veil was placed on her head, Phyllis suddenly remembered the previous night's dream that had conveniently slipped from her mind. She now recalled in vivid detail, entering the empty church, walking up to the coffin and raising the lid. This time, she had seen what was inside. It was her own face that stared back at her.
Oddly enough, the bride burst out laughing at the recollection.
"What's so funny?" Helena asked.
"I had a dream last night," her cousin explained, exhibiting no sign of the fear that had been tormenting her for weeks. "I was alone in the church. Near the altar was a closed coffin. I opened the lid, and saw my own corpse inside."
"And you think that's funny?"
Phyllis quickly explained the series of dreams that had disturbed her sleep.
"Now the meaning is clear," she concluded. "All this time, I was just afraid of getting married. Apparently, my subconscious mind feared the end of my life as I knew it. But there's no need for me to worry. Wesley and I are going to have a happy marriage. I'm sure of it."
Helena, twice divorced, did not share her cousin's optimism.
* * *
At eleven o'clock, Lyle Pollitt helped his daughter exit the rented limousine. She took his arm and climbed the stairs of St. Michael's. Unlike the disturbing images in her dreams, there were people on the street, cars in the road and voices and music could be heard through the open door of the church.
This is it, she thought, recalling the daydreams of a wedding she had as a child listening to the minister's sermon.
When she and her father walked down the aisle, she glimpsed faces of friends and loved ones watching her, some with misted tears in their eyes. The occasion was every bit as wonderful as she had imagined it would be. Finally, she reached the altar where Wesley and his brother, the best man, were waiting. The organ fell silent.
In accordance with the traditional wedding service both bride and groom wanted, Father Verdon began, "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony."
The ceremony proceeded without incident. Phyllis and Wesley made it through their vows without any slip-ups. Finally, Father Verdon came to the end of the service.
"Phyllis and Wesley, you have expressed your love to one another through the commitment and promises you have just made. It is with these in mind that I pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride."
The smiling groom raised the veil and leaned forward. His lips touched the bride's.
Phyllis abruptly stiffened. Although she had never experienced any clairvoyant episodes in the past, the moment Wesley's lips touched hers she had a horrifyingly real psychic vision of her new husband beating her with a force strong enough to break her bones. The impact of the experience caused her to faint. Luckily, Father Verdon caught her before she fell to the ground.
"What happened?" she asked with confusion when she came to.
"You swooned," the minister replied.
"My kisses never had that effect on you before," Wesley laughed.
"I haven't been getting enough sleep," she said.
Phyllis was hesitant to look in her husband's direction as he supported her while they walked down the aisle. She preferred to put on a fake smile and nod her head at the guests sitting in the pews.
What the hell was that? she asked herself as she exited the church, shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight. It was like a bad nightmare, only ten times worse.
Yet it could not be a dream, for she had been wide awake at the time.
The bride and groom stood on the steps of St. Michael's, and the guests offered their congratulations and wished them luck as they made their way out of the church. Throughout the ordeal, Phyllis maintained a calm, cheerful demeanor. All the while, however, her fear mounted—fear that she might be losing her mind.
After taking wedding photographs at a nearby state park, the wedding party had the chance to rest before the reception. The newlyweds went to Wesley's house to freshen up.
"Wait a minute!" the groom said as he unlocked the front door and his wife stepped forward.
"Why? I have to go to the bathroom."
"I've got to carry you over the threshold first."
"I never knew you were such a romantic."
Despite the fullness of the dress, Wesley had little difficulty lifting Phyllis off the ground and carrying her into his house. Her laughter abruptly stopped when she saw the staircase to the right of the kitchen doorway. Another psychic premonition gripped her brain, this one of her husband violently pushing her down the stairs.
"Let me go!" she cried.
"I get it. You've got to go."
She ran into the bathroom, not because nature called but because she wanted to get away from the man she had just married.
Twenty minutes later Wesley knocked on the bathroom door.
"Are you okay in there?" he called. "Do you need help with that dress?"
"No. I'm fine."
Phyllis waited another ten minutes before rejoining her husband in the living room. By that time, the best man and matron of honor were there as well.
This is ridiculous! the bride told herself, fighting her instinct to run from the house and never return. This is Wesley Applegate. The man I've known for two and a half years. The one I fell in love with. He would never hurt me. He doesn't have a mean bone in his body. He's an accountant, for Christ's sake!
Then she remembered that John List, a man who had murdered not only his wife but his mother and three children as well, had also been an accountant. Did Mrs. List believe her husband was not a violent man?
Thankfully, it was soon time to head over to the reception. Phyllis knew the moment would eventually come when she would be alone with her husband, but for now, at least, she could postpone the inevitable.
* * *
"Ladies and gentlemen," the deejay announced just before the appetizer was about to be served, "let's welcome Mr. and Mrs. Applegate onto the dance floor for their first dance as man and wife."
As the opening notes of Elvis Presley's "Can't Help Falling in Love" were played, Wesley took Phyllis by the hand.
Stay calm, the bride cautioned herself. Nothing is going to happen. He certainly won't try to harm me with all these people around.
She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the scenes of violence flashing in her brain: Wesley slapping her across the face, punching her in the mouth, kicking her in the stomach while she lay helpless on the ground. When the song finally came to an end, she hurried back to the table, eager to escape her husband.
"Is something wrong?" he asked when he caught up with her. "Are you feeling all right?"
"N-no, I'm n-not."
"What's wrong?"
"A splitting headache. Don't worry. I'll be okay."
"Can I get you something for it? You've been looking forward to this day for so long. I hate to see it spoiled in any way."
"Just leave me be, will you?"
Throughout the meal, although he kept a close eye on his wife, Wesley made no further attempt to talk to her. If she wanted to be left alone, he would respect her wishes.
It was nearly eight o'clock when the dinner plates were cleared away, and the servers brought around pots of coffee and tea. The three-tier white wedding cake, decorated with red gum paste roses, was then wheeled in.
"Feel up to cutting the cake?" Wesley whispered in Phyllis's ear.
Although she would just as soon avoid close contact with him, she could not think of a way to get out of it. The cutting of the wedding cake was, for many people, the highlight of a reception.
"Sure," she replied and reluctantly let him take her by the arm.
A waitress handed Wesley an engraved silver knife and cake server set, a gift from the best man.
"Which one do I use?" he laughed.
"It will be easier to cut through the fondant with the knife," the young woman replied.
Wesley reached into the velvet-lined box and removed the utensil. At the sight of the knife in his hand, Phyllis experienced the most frightening premonition of the day: his face distorted with rage, Wesley repeatedly drove the engraved knife into his wife's chest.
He's going to kill me!
It was not an assumption or a matter of conjecture; it was a certainty. Wesley WOULD kill her!
Unless ....
A preemptive strike is defined as "a first-strike attack carried out to destroy an enemy's capacity to respond. A preemptive strike is based on the assumption that the enemy is planning an imminent attack." For instance, if the United States believed that one of its enemies was about to launch a nuclear attack, it would most certainly take preemptive measures. It was a simple matter of self-defense. It was no different than the situation Phyllis found herself in.
As the assembled guests sang, "The groom cuts the cake, the groom cuts the cake ...," Wesley began slicing through the bottom layer. He temporarily withdrew the knife, now covered in yellow cake, white fondant and strawberry filling. Joking with the guests, he was taken by complete surprise when Phyllis grabbed the knife from his hands.
"Wait!" he laughed. "Your turn is ...."
The guests stared in utter horror as the bride drove the sharp sterling silver knife deep into the groom's heart, killing him instantly.
The pandemonium that broke out in the ballroom soon caused a commotion in the kitchen.
"What's going on out there?" one of the cooks demanded to know.
"I think someone's been badly hurt," a busboy replied.
Nearly all the kitchen staff left their posts to see what was going on when the police siren sounded. Only one person seemed to have no interest in the tragic events that were unfolding. In fact, when the food service employees left the room, the young woman with the tattoos, body piercings and black hair with spikes of red, purple and blue quietly exited through the back door.
"It's getting easier with each passing century," she said with a sigh of boredom. "There's no more challenge in my work. Just give a human a few bad dreams and plant some disturbing images in the mind and he or she will completely fall apart."
In an exceedingly rare moment of her long existence, Discordia, the Greek goddess of strife and discord—who was currently going by the name of Miranda—took pity on the unfortunate young woman whose life she had so carelessly ruined. The irises of her eyes changed color from green to blue to lavender as she telepathically sent another false image to Phyllis's befuddled brain. Thanks to Miranda's unexpected mercy, for what was left of her life, the murderous bride would remain ignorant of her true surroundings. Rather than enduring confinement to an institution for the criminally insane, the former school librarian would believe she was a little girl sitting in a pew of St. Michael's Church, endlessly dreaming of a day when she would walk down the aisle on her father's arm in an elegant, white wedding gown.
Sorry, Salem, but I don't think any bride and groom would want a cake topper with your silhouette on it.
