Yellow viscous slime
—ominous sign on the other side.
He followed Samantha and the priest into the wide expanse beyond the door into the hall that was heavily tiled. He saw candles in votive glasses off to the side, sitting under a gold plated icon. Christ held a book in that one, and His hand was raised in the orthodox manner for blessing and consecration. The priest’s feet made hardly any sounds, only the dull swishing of his vestments that dragged the floor in places as he descended a small set of stairs that led into the nave.
The door slammed shut with a hollow thump that sounded ever so vaguely like a drum.
Samantha paused at the doorway to the nave, dipped two fingers into the basin of water to the side and made the sign of the cross, bowing slightly as she did so and then continued forward.
Clark thought about following suit, but his old Methodist upbringing and Presbyterian leanings kept him from doing so. She glanced behind her and gave him a look, as if she could hear the thoughts as they were seeping out of him. Seeing if he would indeed follow her lead in the matter—as if a part of her was daring him.
Father Capaldi went to the front of the building and pulled out a pile of tissue boxes, began placing them on each pew as he passed back down the aisle.
Clark leaned against a pew toward the back and looked up, spotting angels carved into stone and setting on top of pillars that led to the vaulted ceiling. He felt a chill pass through him that could not be fought off by any help of his coat.
The casket stood at the front of the aisle, facing down from the communion table. Beside it was a small table, a high school picture of him and pretty much nothing else except a single white flower that seemed to have been left out too long. He wondered who had paid the money up front for the funeral. He doubted that Samantha would have had any funds to pull off something so small as even the most basic of funerals. He imagined that Father Capaldi would be doing the service and burial for free, but not everyone was so gentle and generous as the priest who seemed incredibly focused on the small comforts of temperature and tissues. It occurred to him to ask later and see if he could in any way help out with the cost. There was still a good life insurance chunk left over.
I have to be able to do something, he thought. Even if it is really too late after all.
He thought for a moment of the box that sat in the kitchen of his apartment, unsorted, unkempt, and mostly unconsidered until that reminder nagged itself into the very back of his mind. It was eating out a home like a bothersome parasite that was intent on eating into his brain. He could feel the tiny teeth digging.
I never would have made it this far without you.
He wondered how much of that was actually true and how much he had really screwed the whole thing up to begin with.
Father Capaldi ran out of tissue boxes and began to look around in the pews, straightening prayer books and Bibles, faded and old as they were, Clark couldn’t see much purpose in straightening them.
The door behind them opened with a creak, and then was quickly closed with another thunderous drum sound.
The parasite took another bite.
He looked behind him, and without recognizing who had entered turned back toward the front where the coffin lay closed. On top of it was a few small flowers that he hadn’t remembered seeing when they walked in originally, probably placed there out of the meager budget that anyone around him had for a young man’s funeral.
Across from him, he could see Samantha shedding her jacket, revealing a sleeveless black dress, and a tattoo running down her entire left arm. Bright flowers and a dragon that ran down to her forearm, before losing itself into another tangle of flowers. He clapped a hand over his mouth and swallowed the vomit that tried to crawl up and broke into a coughing fit.
Samantha and the priest both looked at him, wondering what could possibly be wrong.
He knew they would never understand.
[Transcript of Session from the Case File of Jon Morgan]
Bell: I really want to revisit something we haven’t talked about for a while, Jon. Is that okay?
Jon: That depends on what it is.
Bell: I think you know what I mean.
Jon: I was afraid you would say that.
(Silence)
Bell: Are you ready?
Jon: No. But go ahead.
Bell: Tell me again what you remember about when your mother died. Only this time, give me a little bit of setting. Tell it like you’re telling a story to me.
Jon: I guess I can do that.
(Pause)
Bell: Any time that you’re ready.
Jon: It was a Friday night. Dad was gone, as usual. He was probably at the bar, wasting away his paycheck on beer and betting on college teams that never won. We didn’t mind. We had the house to ourselves. Mom ordered pizza, despite the fact dad would be mad if he knew. I was in my room. I remember that…
(The sound of ice cubes clinking against a glass)
Jon: I was looking at a magazine, or maybe it was a manga book. I don’t remember which. I remember I was playing music. Metallica black album on my turntable. It was when vinyl first started making a comeback, and I had managed to snag it at a thrift store. Mom hated it, but me and Sam loved it. Sam wasn’t with me, she was in her room doing something. She didn’t go out that night, she had thought about it. She used to sneak out all the time, you know, before. I never asked what she was doing, and I never wanted to know.
The first sound I heard was a loud bang. I thought Mom had just dropped something. That’s what it kind of sounded like. She might have knocked over a pan in the kitchen or something. My music was so loud that it was all I could hear. I just kept reading. Like an idiot I kept reading that stupid comic or whatever.
Bell: You didn’t know, Jon. It’s not your fault.
Jon: Yeah. I guess.
Bell: Keep going.
Jon: Mom was dead,and I didn’t do anything about it. Nothing.
[End of Excerpt]
CHAPTER THREE
1
The door opened on the third try. Samantha Morgan juggled the key card in her hand along with a large brown paper bag, and managed to use her elbow to get enough leverage to get the door to open. The coat sagged down on her shoulder, sliding down the top of her arm and she used the toe of her shoe to ram into the crevice and get the door to open the rest of the way. Muttered a curse under her breath and praying to God that nobody was watching her, it had been far too long of a day to deal with people pestering her, and the motel was not exactly occupied by the type of people who would make great conversationalists.
She forced her way into the room and kicked the door shut behind her, fishing with her free hand for the light switch that she could swear was never in the same place every time she entered the room. When her fingers found the downcast groove, she flicked it up and glanced around the small room, noting that housekeeping had not come by and sat the sack of food down on the counter before she sighed and tossed her purse down next to it. Keys, change and lighter all clattered together in metallic unison.
Sam moved across the way she came and slapped the door lock down, and secured the chain, double checking the knob as she did so. When she was satisfied she headed toward the meager bed that was right past the so-called kitchenette, pulled off her coat, and wiped the sweat off of her forehead. Her hair swung back and forth as she did so, like a dog wagging it’s tail with joy at it’s owners actions. She reached behind her head and pulled out the elastic band that held the whole mass in one spot, sighing with relief when the pressure on her scalp subsided.
She whipped around in the small room and kicked off both shoes to the side as she did so, letting grace and neatness flow to the wind, and headed for the suitcase that she had left lying on the worn armchair when she had checked in.
Outside she heard a splash followed by squealing laughter. She peeked through the blinds that were slatted downward to see the motel pool currently occupied by a group of teenag
ers. Particularly rowdy and certainly unsupervised at that. A girl with dark hair and cruel charm climbed on top of a boy with Bieber hair and brightly colored pants. They had just managed to toss a boy into the seasonably cold pool, it seemed. She rose to his shoulders and stopped, his arms wrapped around her waist and slowly maneuvered toward her backside. The girl laughed and pulled his hands farther. As she watched, little slivers of familiar pain slipped through her and settled in her stomach, weighing her down. She turned away from the blinds and turned the flashes of memory off. Reached behind her to the zipper on the back of the dress, peeling it down and pulling the curtains tightly closed as she did so.
The dress fell against the bed as if it fainted there, sprawling across the foot of it and the shoulder straps reached up toward the headboard in desperation and loneliness. She tossed the necklace she had worn, an ornate cross on a small gold chain followed it, and decided to pack it up later. She needed a shower. A shower and some food. Maybe some television thrown in for good measure. A nice, fatty, disgusting 90’s sitcom that wasn’t starring Courtney Cox or Jennifer Anniston, A diet Coke with that, thank you very much. Something to wash away the stench of death that clung to her. Something just as useless to dull the stink in her mind that followed.
She tossed a fresh towel on the counter of the tiny bathroom and turned the hot water all the way on, hitting the shower switch, and then waited for the cold water to drain out of the pipe before she cut down the hot water.
The towels that were provided were garden variety, used and worn. Countless people had used them again and again, and they’d been washed probably less times than actually used, leaving peculiar stains across the middle of them where heavy sweat fell and stayed, dirty skin dried off with and perhaps a coffee cup or two had spilled. They were clean though, she could smell the familiar scent of industrial laundry soap from her last year of being a teenager unable to apply at other places of employment.
The water grew hot fast, and she turned to another yell outside the window. This one was a little different than the others—it was another sound that brought back too many memories of her own. A half-laugh, half-scream broke when the game was in full swing and a boy was putty in the hands of a girl who had no clue what she was doing to herself.
Sam turned the cold water on half way and let it mix in with the hot. Touched it with the tender inside of her arm to test the temperature.
With her free hand she rubbed the top of her thigh where a line of straight scars sat.
The soap amenities were just as sparse and run of the mill as could be expected. She had used half the shampoo the night before, and only a fraction of the body wash remained. She didn’t think it would be near enough to do the kind of deep cleansing she needed.
She turned up the heat and steam roared back at her.
The clasp on her bra gave her a little struggle, but relented and she hung it on the doorknob before slipping out of her panties and climbed into the steamy cove that awaited her. The warmth washing out from the open curtain and drawing her in out of the cold air outside—somehow nullifying the cold fingers of death that had scraped across her soul for the second time in her life, pulling her ever closer.
The water felt better when she stepped into it. The pressure had been something she hadn’t quite been able to anticipate on her arm. On her back it felt strong and welcoming, like a firm embrace. She let it wash over her, soaking through her hair, and covering her skin.
She reached for the shampoo and began the ritual that she did every day.
In her mind she played the song that had rattled across the tiny speakers she had brought for the funeral. The tones of “Patience” which was Jon’s favorite Guns N Roses song echoed in her ears still, even as poor as the sound quality was, bounding off of the stonework that was in the church. The service had gone well, the eulogy was beautiful, and overall, despite being a tiny operation, it had all gone pretty well—but she would always remember the song, probably. It was funny how out of it all, that one, low budget touch was what stuck out to her as being one of the most honorable things that could have been done for Jon.
She heard another sound that may have been another yell, but ignored it, lathering the soap richly into her scalp, casting aside any care. Poured the last of it into her palm, running it through her whole hand and back again, all the way down to the roots and ends. The warm water felt good against her skin, and she felt herself growing lost in it.
From her lips the words of the song began to slowly drift out, as best as she could, without any accompaniment.
When she reached for the body wash, she heard something outside of the bathroom fall, but it was far closer than the hallway.
Words froze on her mouth and she stopped, paralyzed with her fingertips wrapped around the shampoo bottle, the plastic pliable in the steamy enclosure but her pruned fingers slipped and it fell from the shelf it was waiting on, bounced twice and landed on the drain. The cheap cap cracked and spilled down into the pipes below.
Samantha listened.
Rustling sounded past the dripping as the water streaming from the shower head dripped from her body and onto the cheap laminated tub it was enclosed in.
Someone was in the room with her.
Her spine grew cold and she slowly stood to full height, her wet hair slapped against her shoulders in thick bunches. The water slapped her in the chest and ran down her torso, flopping onto the laminate in an uneven stream and she took a step back against the wall of the shower stall.
Oh dear God, oh dear God, what am I going to do?
She reached around the small enclosure for something—anything—that would give some heft in her hand.
What did they want? Why were they in the room?
There was another rustling, this time it sounded a tad farther away and she was sure that it was coming from her suitcase. They were rifling through her stuff, which meant that they were just looking for something quick and easy to steal, maybe they would be gone, maybe they would leave after they had what they want and leave her alone.
Sam didn’t want to bet on it and continued to look around, finding nothing in the small tub that she could use.
Warily, she slid apart the shower curtain, fractions of an inch at a time, and saw that the bathroom itself was empty still—she was still in the clear there—and reached a wet leg around to the mat that was laid out in front of it and stepped out onto it. From the rack behind her she grabbed a towel and quickly wrapped herself in it, fastening the end of the towel around her chest and smoothing it out to where it stopped about mid-thigh. With another hand she moved her hair away from her eyes and scanned the room.
Dull tile met more dull tile and the spartan provisions of the motel didn’t give her any confidence as to what would be there, but she stepped sideways, not moving her gaze from the doorway that laid wide open, and began to search with her hands for anything she could use to defend herself.
Dear God, please, please no.
The thought of someone grabbing her, hot breath and cold hands pressed up against her. Taking the towel and tossing it to the ground…
She pushed it away and continued to search. The only thing she thought would be remotely usable was a freestanding hand towel holder.
The rustling had stopped from the far side of the motel room. She heard a faint yell from the rowdy teenagers down by the pool, and the thin roar of the heating units in the surrounding rooms. They hissed through the walls and window like snakes drifting across the wind, slithering up to her.
She listened for a long moment, being sure that the rustling had stopped. Tried to listen for any movement or heavy breathing that would give her a clue as to where the person was, if it was actually only one person in the room with her.
Two would be impossible for her to fight off, they would overpower her easily. They would grab her and they would take her, two sets of cold hands running over her wet and nude body, defenseless against them, unable to resist what they wanted to do.
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A familiar dread settled over her, and she grabbed the towel holder. It was small, but it had a good base on it that would give enough heft to her swing to at least stun somebody for a few seconds. She could make it to the door and into the hall. Somebody would help her, they would have to. How could they not?
Did I lock the chain? She couldn’t remember for the life of her if she had secured the chain on the door. She always did, without fail she would always lock the chain on the door—but if she did how did they get in? How did they open the chain?
What did they want?
Her knuckles grew light as she held the pole of the towel holder in a tighter grip.
The shower roared behind her, the water still pouring down onto the tub and curtain in rough sheets, steam pouring from every opening in it. Thin clouds of mist formed around her and in front of her, keeping her skin wet and slick. She was afraid she would lose her grip on her makeshift weapon with her hands so wet. What if she missed and it slipped out of her hand?
Then I’d be screwed.
She took a cautious step toward the door, pausing mid-stride to listen carefully. Listening for the breathing that she was sure she would hear, that she was sure would mean that the person was on the other side of the door frame, waiting for her, poised and ready to take her, ready to have her.
Sam adjusted the towel quickly as it had begun to slide down, and secured it a little tighter, trying to force her breathing to remain in calm, even breaths. Trying to fight the feeling of absolute fear and dread that was pressing down on her chest and making the air in her lungs thick and hard to breathe, sucking the breath right out of her like leech with a hold on a good vein.
Her nose was overloaded with the sickly sweet smell of key lime and cream that the wrapper around the soap had advertised before opening it, but beneath that she could smell the break of sweat that had broken free under the moisture that covered her. She could feel a throbbing in her forehead where a vein wrapped around her skull.
Sleep Revised Page 6
