by A. I. Nasser
He couldn’t deny that the girl had made an impression on him, but that was all it was, an impression. Gina’s words played over and over again in his head, her warning a little too ominous to be taken seriously, probably nothing more than an old woman’s attempt at throwing some excitement into an otherwise mundane day of cleaning.
Eva Green was nothing more than the neighbor’s daughter. That was it. Whether or not he could trust the Greens was up to him. He’d let his instincts decide that, not some old woman’s ramblings.
Turning on the boiler, he leaned against the kitchen counter and waited. He had called Karen earlier, listening to her with a smile on his face and honestly showing interest in her first day as department manager. She had been excited, dreamily recounting her new position and responsibilities, and he was proud of her. She had worked hard for her promotion, and he was happy that when it had come, it was all she ever imagined it would be.
He had given her a quick summary of his encounter with Gina and had voiced concern over the fact that he still hadn’t written anything. Karen had been supportive, as always, and it had made him feel a lot better.
She wouldn’t have been as supportive if you had told her about Eva.
John winced. He had conveniently left that detail out.
The boiler clicked off, the bubbles of water inside hungrily rising and falling, waiting to be of use. He scolded himself as he poured the water into a mug and mixed the instant coffee with his regular three spoons of sugar. His head wasn’t on right, and he needed to get back in the game.
Walking back to the living room, he frowned when he caught a whiff of something odd. He sniffed again and felt his stomach turn as the scent of something rotten raced into his nostrils. He looked around him, wondering if a window had opened again and let the smell in, but as he moved around the house, he realized that the source was from behind a door in the kitchen.
Your basement is rotten.
Gina’s words echoed in his head, and he cringed in disgust as he moved closer to the door. He had no idea how he had missed it earlier, but if Gina had smelt it, it must have been faint enough to be missed. He put his mug down on the countertop and opened the basement door, coughing violently as the rotten air escaped and slapped him in the face.
“Damn it,” he cursed.
He quickly closed the door and ran to the sink, grabbing a towel and flooding it with water. He coughed again, the smell lingering in the air like a blanket. He squeezed the water out of the towel and quickly pushed it under the door, blocking out the space beneath and hoping the water would trap the smell. He quickly opened the kitchen window, leaving his mug behind and closing the kitchen door, in an effort to keep the smell out of the rest of the house.
He was going to have to call Gina again.
***
There was little Samuel could do on the night he found out his son had died.
Pulling on his overcoat and lighting a cigarette, he stepped out of the funeral home into the falling rain, the darkness around him hugging him like a warm blanket. He felt its fingers caressing his skin, like an old friend that was trying to comfort him, maybe even take away the emptiness he felt inside.
Samuel fought back his tears. He needed to be strong, for him and his wife. Let her do the crying. Mothers should cry over their children. Fathers needed to make sure that the world moved on.
He pulled up the collar of his coat around his neck and began to walk. His keys jingled in his pockets, reminding him that there was always the safety and warmth of his car if he needed it.
He didn’t.
Tonight he wanted to feel the rain.
He continued down the dark street, barely registering the faces of the pedestrians he passed, each one looking a bit like his dead son, each one seeming to smile at his misery. You deserve this, their looks said. You deserve everything that happens to you from here on out.
Samuel shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the delusions he was starting to feel. He had all the time in the world to blame himself for his son’s death, but tonight was about retribution. Tonight was about fixing his mistakes, and making sure that what had happened would never go unpunished.
He walked slowly, letting the rain soak him, seep into the spaces between the coat and his skin, the winds blowing against him forcing his body to shiver. Memories of his son raced through his mind, images of their short time together flashing before his eyes. His lips quivered, the pain he felt barely contained, the anger stronger.
When he reached the arcade, he pushed inside without breaking his stride. In a corner, surrounded by his two associates, sat the owner of the establishment, laughing and drinking. He fell silent as he saw Samuel walk in, but his smile didn’t leave his face. He watched as Samuel walked up to the table and stared right at him.
“Samuel Dean,” he said. “I heard about your son. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Samuel said nothing, only stared.
“If there’s anything I can do, please, don’t hesitate,” the man said, smiling at the others.
“You made your point, Alexander,” Samuel said, his voice hoarse as the tears now fell freely down his cheeks. “Now let me make mine.”
No one could have anticipated what happened next, and they watched in horror as Samuel Dean pulled a knife from his coat pocket and began to stab the man repeatedly.
***
John woke up with a start, his breathing harsh, his heart racing. His head was screaming, the pain of inexplicable pressure within forcing him to squeeze at his temples as he tried to stop the world around him from spinning.
He tried to get out of bed, his legs buckling slightly, and he quickly grabbed onto the bedpost to stop himself from falling. Feeling his way across the room, his eyes shut tightly as he tried to wish the pain away, made his way into the bathroom, fell in front of the toilet and heaved.
He hadn’t eaten anything all day, but torrents came out of his mouth, and soon he was coughing uncontrollably and curling into a fetal position on the bathroom floor. His entire body seemed to spasm, and he felt incredibly cold despite the warmth of the house. Waiting for the attack to subside, he pushed himself to his feet, holding onto the sink for support, and quickly turned the water on. He washed his face, the cold water shocking him out of his spasms, and quickly started to feel the effects of his attack wear off.
He staggered back into the bedroom, slowly making his way to the comfort of his bed. His eyes caught sight of his laptop, open on his desk, the usual blank page he had grown accustomed to seeing now full of words. He frowned. Barely able to hold himself up, he leaned against the chair and took a closer look at the screen, blinking repeatedly and waiting for his imagination to regress and the blank screen to reappear.
He hadn’t imagined it, though.
John stared dumbfounded at the beginning of a story he couldn’t remember writing.
Chapter 6
June Summers saw a completely different John Krik walk into her market that morning.
She was amused at his whistling as he skipped in, waving to her and immediately rummaging through the rows of goods. She could hear him singing softly to himself, something by The Doors, or The Who, terribly out of tune, but at least the lyrics seemed right. She waited for him to finish and practically dance his way to the register, the groceries this time a lot more appetizing than his previous purchase.
“You seem lively,” she remarked, observing him closely as he smiled like a little boy.
“I’m writing,” he said, the excitement in his eyes mirrored in his voice.
June cocked her head to a side. “You weren’t writing before?”
John shook his head and leaned in, elbows on the counter. “You want to hear a secret?” he whispered. He motioned to her to come closer. “I haven’t written a word in three years. It’s why I’m here.”
June chuckled and started to bag his groceries. “Well, I’m glad Cafeville’s charm is bringing you your muses.”
“A lot more
than that,” John nodded. “It’s like I don’t even feel it happening. It’s incredible. For the first time in years, I’m on cruise control, watching the words come out, as if I were simply a vessel.” He took his bags and winked at her. “It’s quite refreshing.”
June smiled and threw in a pack of cigarettes with the rest of his stuff. “It’s on me. Consider it a congratulatory gesture for getting off the bench.”
John thanked her and pushed out of the store, whistling happily as he loaded the car with his groceries and drove off.
***
He was on a roll.
Since the night before, he hadn’t been able to stop. It was everything he had hoped for and more, and by the time he had gone out for groceries, he had finished another seven thousand words.
And the story was still coming.
It was unusual, even for him, especially since he was known for his romance novels. He had never considered a genre change, and he was excited to hear what Derrick would think of it. He would probably have to find a way to throw in a romance scene here and there, keep at least some of his fans satisfied, but he wasn’t sweating it. For now, he was riding the high of seeing words on the screen.
He had smoked through an entire pack of cigarettes in less than four hours. His fingers danced across the keyboard, a smile on his face as his mind raced with more and more ideas, descriptions and characters coming to life at his very fingertips. Never had he felt this rush before. With his previous bestsellers, every word had been pulled out of him painfully and slowly. Maybe he had never been meant to write romance. This was definitely more exciting.
John closed off a chapter, then sat back and looked at his work, admiring how far he had come in only one day. The ten thousand word count at the bottom left corner of his screen made him happier than ever, and it was with a heavy heart that he decided to call it a day.
It will be here when you come back.
John had no idea if that were true, but he decided to trust that little voice in the back of his head on this one.
Standing up tiredly, he stretched and shut down his laptop, grabbing the pack June had given him and making his way downstairs. He had considered buying a TV, but somehow he thought the thing might work more as a distraction than anything else. Besides, he had internet, and YouTube was more than enough for now.
He walked into the kitchen and cringed as the ever-present smell hit him. He had forgotten to call Gina, too caught up in the thrill of writing to really care, and only now did he realize that the smell had escaped past the towel and had made the kitchen unbearable.
Lighting a cigarette, hoping the smoke would distract his nostrils from the scent of rot coming from downstairs, he opened the basement door and turned on the lights.
The smell hit him harder than the day before, and he realized that no one in their right mind would venture down there without an oxygen mask. He tried breathing through his mouth, gagging at the taste of the air, and made his way down the creaking staircase.
The light from the single bulb was scarce, and he quickly found himself wishing he had bought a flashlight. He took a quick look around, silently hoping he would figure out the source of the smell quickly and not have to spend too much time here. When he couldn’t find what was causing the rot, he paced deeper into the basement and kicked a few old boxes aside.
The basement was empty save for the heater and a few shelves collecting dust to one side. He could feel the humidity down there like a heavy blanket. It had probably gotten into the woodwork.
Or maybe something’s buried here.
John laughed the thought away, but his eyes still scanned the floor for any signs that would confirm the thought. When he found nothing out of the ordinary, he made his way to the two basement windows and pushed them open.
He could feel the air inside rush out, as if escaping from a prison, and wondered when the last time this place had been allowed to breathe. Looking about again, making sure he hadn’t missed anything, John dropped his cigarette on the floor, put it out and climbed back upstairs.
It was possible he didn’t need Gina after all.
Chapter 7
John woke up to a knocking at his door.
Groaning, he sat up slowly, confused as to why he had fallen asleep on the couch. He looked at his watch, registered that it was one in the morning, and silently cursed whoever had decided to visit him this late.
He made his way to the front door, switching on the hall lights and frowning as they began to flicker. Deciding to check on them later, he looked out at the front porch through the small side window and felt his heart skip a beat. He opened the door, and Eva quickly ran in, closing the door behind her and laughing.
“Eva, what are you doing here?”
She put a finger to her mouth and quickly turned off the flickering lights. “My father would kill me if he knew I was here.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Sure,” she said, nodding and making her way down the hall, looking around with wide eyes. “I had to wait until they were asleep.”
“You should go,” John said.
Eva turned to him and pouted. “Oh, come on,” she pleaded. “I’ve always wanted to see the inside of this house.”
“It’ll still be here in the morning,” John said, opening the front door and gesturing for her to leave.
Eva walked up to him and stubbornly closed the door. “My father’s never wanted me near the house, and he’s already given me hell about my last visit. So, this is my only chance.”
John frowned at her, and she grabbed both his hands and hopped lightly in front of him like a little girl. “Please,” she begged. “A quick look around. This place is a legend. I promise it won’t take more than twenty minutes.”
“It’s a big house,” John said.
She giggled again and pulled him down the hall. “Then we’d better hurry.”
***
This is wrong, John thought as he showed Eva around the first floor, barely able to stay awake, annoyed at her excitement.
Whatever it was that made this house so special, it went right over John’s head. He was amused at how many questions she had, most of which he couldn’t answer as he constantly reminded her that he had just moved in and wasn’t the actual owner. That didn’t stop her, though, and she continued to inspect every nook as if she were preparing to write a paper about it.
John felt incredibly uncomfortable, more than ever wanting the blonde to leave, although a small part of him was thriving on the attention. He had had fans come up to him before, flirt with him on several occasions, but none as pretty as Eva. He again wondered why the hell she was still in Cafeville.
A girl like that could have whatever she wants. She could have you.
John shook his head quickly, smiling politely as Eva looked at him in awe after discovering something else in the house that struck her fancy. She moved gracefully across the living room, down the hall, into the kitchen and out, checking everything, opening everything. For a moment, John felt like he was under scrutiny, but her smile each time she discovered something new eased that tension quickly.
“What’s upstairs?” she asked, looking up the staircase, already starting up.
John sighed and followed, knowing well that a simple answer wouldn’t be enough. His eyes dropped on her behind as she raced up, and he quickly looked away, forcing his eyes down.
Oh, let it go already. There’s no harm in looking.
There was a lot of harm in looking, and John quickly felt for his wedding ring as he waited at the end of the second-floor landing while Eva looked around. He was going to have to call Karen in the morning, hear her voice, reassure that sinking feeling inside him that somehow, in some telepathic, wife-only way, she didn’t suspect anything.
She’s miles away, and she has no idea. Stop beating yourself up.
Only he wasn’t. Something in the back of his head was playing at the chords of infidelity that lingered there, tied down and cag
ed behind bars with no way out. Something was tugging at his inhibitions, and he fought against that urge to smile a little wider, act a little more excited, play along with the blonde’s eagerness until she was inspecting more than the house.
“This is cool!”
John’s mind snapped back to the now, and he frowned, trying to discern where her voice was coming from. He made his way down the hall and caught her staring at his laptop in his bedroom, reading what he had written. He suddenly felt violated.
“Get away from that!” he snapped, rushing forward and slamming the laptop shut.
Eva stepped back, a mix of shock and embarrassment on her face, and a hint of fear manifesting behind a pair of emerald eyes. John ran a hand through his hair and sighed, as confused as she was at his overreaction.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t like people reading my work before it’s done.”
That’s a lie, Johnny-boy. Karen reads your work all the time.
This isn’t Karen.
Oh no, but I bet you’d like her to be.
“It’s okay,” Eva said, forcing a smile. “Are you a writer?”
John nodded, sitting down on his bed, running a hand across his laptop.
“Is that why you’re here?” she asked. “To write?”
“I’ve been having a bit of a dry spell recently,” John explained. “My editor suggested I come out here and clear my mind, kind of find some inspiration.”
Eva looked at him, her eyes admiring, her small smile a bit more genuine. “Is it working?”
John tapped his laptop. “Better than I had imagined,” he said. “Although, I’m not sure how long it will last.”
Eva walked past him, apparently returning to her inspection, leaning into the bathroom as she looked around. “Why?” she asked.
John thought hard about it, wondering how much he was actually willing to share with the girl next door. He hardly knew her, but her curiosity was amusing. He was beginning to think that had a lot to do with being locked up in Cafeville for twenty years.
