by JC Gatlin
A little after one, she finally came out of her room. Clem followed. Susan lay passed out on the couch, snoring. Her smart phone rested face-up on the coffee table. The screen flashed red squiggly lines that zig-zagged in alternating directions. Abbie wasn’t sure if that was a screen saver or symptoms of a dying phone. The twins were long gone. An infomercial for a garden hose blared on the TV. Susan farted, louder than the TV, and startled Clem. The cat meowed and ran into the kitchen. Abbie followed. The pizza box lay open on the counter. There was nothing left inside except a partially eaten crust and a few stray black olives.
She closed the lid and walked to the front door. For some unfathomable reason, she touched the door handle. It was locked. But the chain still dangled from the upper edge of the door. She fit the chain into the lock on the door frame.
It really didn’t make her feel any safer.
Clem meowed at her feet, and rubbed against her ankles. Abbie picked him up and cradled him in her arms.
* * * *
Outside, on the other side of the door, the man wearing a brown hat and a tan trench coat twisted the necklace in his right hand. He listened to the muffled volume of the TV coming from inside the apartment. He couldn’t make out the exact words, only the tone of an announcer’s hyper-excited voice. It was probably an infomercial, he decided, and pressed the side of his head against the door, listening for Abbie.
Surely she was in there. He didn’t physically see her come home; he’d lost her in the woods. She’d caught him following her and he had to disappear. Later, he circled back to her apartment complex. He hadn’t seen her all evening, but was certain she made it home.
Absentmindedly, he twisted and untwisted the necklace between the fingers of his right hand. The sound of the chain lock rattling on the other side of the door startled him. He took a step back, careful to avoid being seen from the peep hole. Abbie had to be inside. Twin girls left the apartment over forty-five minutes ago. No one else had come or gone. Now someone inside—Abbie, perhaps—was locking the chain on the door.
Staying close to the wall, he let the necklace slip between his fingers, allowing it to stretch to its full length. The unicorn pendant to swung wildly in tight circles. He stared at it a moment, then tossed it toward the locked door. The necklace coiled on top the welcome mat.
Taking out his notepad, he jotted down, “1:13 AM – Abbie and the tall roommate locked in apartment.” He shut the notepad and returned it to a shirt pocket under his trench coat. He headed toward the black wrought-iron stairs. Adjusting his hat, he walked down the three flights to the parking lot, his tan trench coat blowing in the night breeze.
Chapter 7
Little five-year-old Abbie Reed hid in the attic. She sat on a wood beam, her bare feet firmly planted on the crumbling sheets of drywall. She backed up until her spine butted against more boxes. She felt cobwebs in her hair, and the whole space felt uncomfortably stale and silent. Unnaturally so.
The trap door jolted. Abbie jumped. The ladder dropped and light from the hallway invaded the dark corners around her. Abbie held her breath, pushing her body tighter against a dusty dry cardboard box. There was no more room to move. Nowhere to hide. She looked back at the opening.
The man’s bald head rose from the trap door, into the attic. Their eyes locked. She trembled, held her breath. He reached for her.
“Come here Pretty One…”
Abbie woke with a gasp and clutched her pillow. Clem, lying at the foot of the bed, lifted his head as if he’d been rudely awoken. Abbie glanced at her cat, then over at the laptop on her desk. The bubbly music sounded like an alarm, and she slipped out of bed. She picked up the computer, humming with an incoming Skype call, and brought it back to the bed. She sat on top of the covers as her father’s face appeared on the screen.
“Happy Birthday to you,” he sang. “Happy Birthday dear Abigail…”
“Would you stop it.” Abbie yawned and stretched her arms. “You know my birthday isn’t until tomorrow.”
Clinton Reed stopped singing. “But you’re turning twenty-one. I just can’t figure where the time has gone.”
Abbie knew her father would be calling early, and was glad he did. But she still felt unsettled. She knew she’d been dreaming, but she couldn’t remember anything about it. Only an uneasiness lingered.
“You got plans?” Her father’s face enlarged on the screen as if he’d leaned-in closer to the camera. “If not, I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Abbie rubbed her eyes. “Really? What is it?”
“You remember McKenzie Thomas? Her grandmother lived down the street from us,” he said. “Well, she called me yesterday.”
“Yeah, I remember her. What’d she want?”Abbie instantly recalled countless summer afternoons with McKenzie Thomas, the poor-little-rich-girl with fashionable play clothes and ribbons in her hair. She wore those brightly colored ribbons throughout childhood and into her teen years. McKenzie spent every summer with her grandmother barely a block away and they developed a friendship of sorts that was based more on accessibility than common interest and camaraderie. Abbie hadn’t seen McKenzie in a couple of years now. In fact, Abbie almost forgot about her. Almost.
“Your grandmother told her grandmother that you’d moved back to Tampa and now McKenzie wants to see you.” His image froze on the screen for a second, then jumped to catch-up with his facial expression. “I told her it was your birthday and she wants to take you to lunch.”
“Today?”
“I gave her your cell phone. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, that’s fine.” Abbie hoped her smile was noncommittal. Truth be told, she hadn’t missed McKenzie’s passive aggressive, my-daddy’s-richer-than-your-daddy jibes. Still, she wondered what McKenzie had been up to. “That’s fine, I guess,” Abbie said. “We haven’t spoken in a long time, so it might be nice to catch up.”
“Good girl. I hope you have fun.” His voice trailed off a little. “I just wish I could come up there to visit you on your birthday.”
“No worries.” Abbie forced a smile. She was disappointed but she didn’t want him to see that. “I don’t want you to do anything you’re uncomfortable doing.”
“I will at some point. Someday.” Deep worry lines appeared above his brows. “I promise.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Abbie said, when the professor crossed her mind again. She stirred uneasily on the bed. “Actually, there’s something I want to ask you.”
“Sure.” His head cocked to one side. He smiled, obviously waiting for her to continue. Abbie cleared her throat.
“I have this professor in Behavioral Science and he says he knows you.”
“What’s his name?”
“Cunningham.” Abbie watched her father’s face turn ashen. He paused then looked away from the camera. Clinton Reed rarely spoke of anyone or anything from their past. Before that night. Still, Abbie knew he thought of it often. Carrying unspoken memories, locking them deep inside, had taken a toll and prematurely aged him. His hair turned gray, is eyes sagged, his shoulders slumped. Not that Abbie really noticed such things.
She just knew that Clinton Reed was there, always by her side, always protecting her.
Slowly, with a gravelly voice, he said, “That was a long time ago.”
“Funny. That’s what he said.” She moved closer to the camera, as if wanting his full attention. “He’s got a picture of you in his office. It’s you and him and some other guys sitting in a bar.”
“I remember that.”
Abbie waited for him to continue, then impatiently added, “And?”
“We were in college when that photo was taken. We did stupid things together and—” He stared intensely at something off camera, as if in deep meditation. When he looked back, there was a faint tremor in his voice. “That was a long time ago.”
“I gotta tell you,” she said. “He’s a little, I don’t know—odd?”
“I barely remember him.” He shook his head. “Like
I said, that was a long time ago.”
Abbie didn’t push him any further. She knew anything connected to the past, to Tampa and especially before her sister’s death was off limits. It made him uncomfortable. It made her uncomfortable too.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” Abbie said, bringing the conversation to an end.
“Hold on.” He touched the screen, motioning for her to wait. Clinton Reed leaned back, revealing a plant and book case behind him. “When it rains…”
“Look for rainbows.” Abbie knew the drill.
“And when it’s dark…”
“Look for stars.”
He looked directly into the camera. His face filled the screen. “Be careful, okay?” His voice died away.
“Always,” she said quickly. “Always.”
With that, his image dissolved. The screen returned to the desktop image. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, Abbie plopped out of bed and made her way to the window. She pulled the curtains to one side and gazed out at busy street below. Clem rubbed against her ankle, and Abbie picked him up. She cradled the purring cat on her shoulder, nuzzling its orange fur.
Half an hour later, Abbie traipsed through the living room. Susan was still passed out on the sofa, snoring. Clem rushed into the kitchen, tail raised. He meowed as Abbie went to the front door. She unlocked the deadbolt, unlatched the chain, and opened the door, expecting to find the morning paper. It wasn’t there.
Instead she found her necklace on top the welcome mat.
She picked it up. The shiny unicorn pendant spun tightly to the right, then unwound to the left. She couldn’t believe her eyes.
Abbie gazed down the empty hallway. No one was there. She looked down at the necklace. The unicorn sparkled in the sunlight.
* * * *
After fixing the clasp on her necklace, Abbie slipped it around her neck and headed to the campus. She hurried to Professor Cunningham ’s office early that morning. The image of the man in the woods was still fresh on her mind. Tan trench coat. Brown hat. He was following her. It wasn’t her imagination. And now, she believed, he knew where she lived. Without thinking, she grasped the unicorn pendant and shook the worry away.
Swinging around the corner into the faculty office, Abbie saw his door open, lights on. Professor Cunningham was talking to another student— that chubby white-blonde girl from class. Miss Larson was it?
Abbie would have to wait. Taking a seat in the hallway, she gazed out the large window overlooking the campus grounds. Beyond the manicured lawn and flowerbeds, a group of students talked to a campus security guard.
It looked like Josh Parks, standing there in his dark blue uniform. Two girls laughed at something he said. One waved a hand through her hair. The other touched Josh’s shoulder. She couldn’t imagine what was so funny. Maybe he told them the same joke he’d told her last night. A Mexican fire chief naming his sons Hose A and Hose B. She chuckled at that, when she felt a tap on her arm.
“You waitin’ for Professor Cunningham?”
Abbie turned and looked up. Miss Larson stood over her, wearing a black 50’s retro skirt with laced combat boots. The streak in her white-blonde hair was now more pink than purple. She often wore gothic party dresses to class, so Abbie didn’t think much of it. Instead, she was more interested in Professor Cunningham. “How’s his mood?”
Miss Larson smirked, smacking her gum. “Interesting.”
Abbie laughed at that. “That’s funny. Cause he always says...”
“Yeah, he’s messed up.” She shot Abbie a knowing smile, then made her way down the hall. Turning her head to look back, she waved at Abbie as she left. “Good luck.”
Abbie didn’t return the wave. Instead, she looked back out the window, hoping to catch one last glance of Josh Parks. The grounds below were empty. He’d driven away in his blue and white golf cart with the flashing orange lights. Even the two chatty girls were gone.
Sighing, Abbie got up and knocked on the door casing of Professor Cunningham’s office. He waved her in without looking up from the papers on his desk.
“It’s me again,” she said, remaining in the doorway. “I told Clinton Reed about you and he told me to tell you hello.”
The Professor put down his pen and glanced at her. “I seriously doubt that.”
“Well, maybe not in so many words.” She walked into his office and stepped to the photograph on the wall. She looked at the image of Clinton Reed in the bar, seemingly so young and happy. “You know, it’s weird, but Clinton Reed doesn’t have any pictures from when he was a young man. When was this taken?”
The Professor folded his arms across his chest. Abbie noticed he was wearing another sweater vest. This one was a sickening dark olive.
“Fifteen, maybe sixteen years ago,” he said.
“I’ve never even seen Clinton Reed take as much as a sip of alcohol.” She peered closer to the photograph, studying the bar. “Where was this taken?”
“In a little dive outside of Tampa.”
“I’m kinda impressed.” Abbie noticed, within the photograph, another picture hanging on the wall over the booth. It was in the center, between the college boys holding up their frosty mugs. It almost looked like young Clinton Reed was looking over at it.
Then Abbie noticed something else. The tiny picture hanging on the wall, the one her father appeared to be staring at, looked like a cartoon. It looked like a drawing of Gareth the Ghoul.
Abbie glanced at the cartoon cel hanging on the Professor’s wall. It looked like the same frame. The same grays, blues and yellow. It looked like the exact same picture.
The connection chilled her, and she didn’t know why. It was just a silly character. She hadn’t watched a Gareth cartoon in years. A cute ghoul-child with a Southern accent, Gareth haunted a graveyard along with a whole community of adult ghouls from the Civil War. They delighted in eating people. Gareth, however, was a nonconformist among ghouls: he preferred to make friends with the living. So, he packed up his belongings and ventured out into the world, hoping to find friends.
Even as a little girl, she hated that cartoon. It came on television every afternoon, and it terrified her. She would hide behind the couch or run under the bed in her grandparent’s room, waiting for Clinton Reed to come home. Funny a cartoon cel would be hanging in the professor’s office. And what was the connection to Clinton Reed?
The Professor interrupted her. “Was there something I could help you with, Miss Reed?”
Abbie turned to him. “Yes,” she said quickly. “Yes. I lost my notes for the paper you assigned us.”
“Interesting.” He folded his hands together on top the desk. She thought of Miss Larson’s impression again and smiled. The professor gestured to the seat by his desk.
“What was the topic again?” Abbie asked as she sat down.
“Were you not paying attention in class?”
She wasn’t sure how to answer, and decided to come clean. “I know you said I was really smart and you expect big things from me, but it’s my twenty-first birthday tomorrow and I was thinking about that and all and… I’m sorry.”
“Interesting,” he said again. Then picked up some papers and handed them to her. Abbie saw that it was a case study. A stapled, twelve page outline of some college social experiment.
“To test whether revenge actually makes the victim feel better,” he said, flipping through his own copy of the case study, “a psychology professor at Colgate University set-up a group investment game with his students.”
“I remember you talking about that yesterday.” She looked up from the paper in her hands. He nodded at her.
“And do you remember their findings?”
Abbie shook her head. The Professor continued.
“People who have been hurt or betrayed hold fast to a belief that if the offender suffers, they will feel better.” He put down his paper, looking at her. “They believe it will relieve their emotional pain. But is that true?”
Abbie’s p
hone dinged, interrupting the professor. He stopped talking and glanced at her. Phones were strictly forbidden in his presence—office or classroom. Abbie gave an embarrassed smile then fished her phone from her purse.
“I’ll just turn this off.” She pressed the button to mute the ringer while at the same time glancing at the screen. It was a text message from McKenzie Thomas. Abbie set her phone face-down on the desk as the Professor finished his lecture.
Twenty minutes later, Abbie left his office holding the twelve page case study in one hand, and her phone in the other. She read the text message as she walked through the crowded hallway.
It was from McKenzie Thomas. Abbie typed a response and hit SEND. A moment later, her phone chirped with a new incoming text message.
Chapter 8
At best, Abbie felt marginally excited to see McKenzie Thomas again. Still, a birthday lunch at SoGo Sushi couldn’t be all bad. The little restaurant had a contemporary décor with neon-lit aquariums and stainless steel tables. A glass bar lined the back wall with the itamae serving guests behind a glass case. Japanese folk music beat softly through the room.
Abbie was seated at a table for two. She turned to the waiter and said, “I’m expecting another party, but do you mind bringing out two glasses of water.”
She glanced at her watch. It was a quarter past eleven. Sighing, Abbie stared out the front window. The sidewalk looked crowded with groups of pedestrians walking past. Cars idled on the street, waiting for the light to change. When it did, they rolled past and Abbie could see the sidewalk on the other side.
Suddenly, impossibly, she saw him. Brown hat and trench coat. He just stood there, across the street at the curb, absolutely still, facing her direction. Was he watching her? Abbie couldn’t see his face, hidden in the shadow of a low slung hat, but she could feel the heavy weight of his stare.
