Ink

by Damien Walters Grintalis

  But he’s never been on a ship. Not this man.

  The music started again, and this time it wasn’t sad. It was longing. The desire to possess the very thing you cannot touch. Whispered words and unrequited love. The green eyes moved closer, close enough for Jason to smell the oil in his hair and the smoke on his clothing. He rolled past Jason and smiled a terrible smile. It held dark promises, that smile.

  A musician with a voice like warm honey sang with one hand pressed against his chest. “Had a girl and she sure was fine.”

  Jason shuddered.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of company,” the suited man said in a husky, cigarette voice.

  The memory disappeared in a flash.

  It was a game. All of it. It wasn’t real, even though I could hear their voices. And the music. The song…

  Still whistling, the shape rolled out of the shadows, the orderly from the hospital, in a bright white dress shirt and black pinstriped pants, although not just the orderly, but also the man from the club. The bones of his face held a different shape, yet Jason knew it was the same man. The same man but with Sailor’s walk.

  The orderly stopped in front of the faded gray door and looked over at Jason with a smile on his dark face, his green eyes glowing in the darkness like a cat’s, then he opened the door and slipped inside. Jason waited for five minutes.

  With his heart racing, he got out of the car, darted across the street, and approached the door. It wavered in the shadows but held its shape. He raised his hand, reached out, and his fingers met brick instead of wood.

  What the hell?

  He stepped back. In several places, the faded paint peeled down in brittle strips with red underneath the gray, bright, vivid red, like streaks of blood under the paint. He moved forward and placed his palms on the door. Once again, his skin met rough brick. He slid his hands down the door

  the brick

  and paint peeled away. When he pulled his hands back and turned them up, a small, jagged piece of gray paint lay like an ashen tear in the center of his palm. It grew warm, then hot, hot enough to burn. Jason suppressed a shout, shaking his hand to dislodge the paint. A small pink circle of flesh appeared next to the line separating his thumb from the rest of his hand—his own personal stigmata.

  The orderly had gone inside; the door had to be there. Jason put his hands back on the door and dragged them down, hissing through his teeth as the brick scraped the skin raw. More paint peeled, falling to the ground in flakes. Jason brought his hands back up, then down, pushing harder.

  I can see the door. It’s right here.

  Heat bloomed against his skin again, and pieces of gray stuck to the bloody streaks on his skin. When he rubbed his hands on his jeans, the burn stopped. Blood streaked the surface of the door. Real blood, not paint.

  He reached for the handle, and for one fleeting moment, his fingers curled around the cool curve of metal, then it vanished, leaving behind only brick. His eyes narrowed. He knew Sailor waited inside, just as he knew the door was real but hidden somehow, hidden by some dark magic.

  Iblis magic.

  Jason curled his hands into fist and pounded on the

  brick the door the brick the

  door. The skin on one of his knuckles split, leaving behind a long streak of blood on the gray. His shoulders hunched forward as he took his hands away. He knew he could stand there all night knocking; it wouldn’t matter. If Sailor didn’t want him to come in, he would never touch the door. It would always be the brick wall, because he—

  Made a mistake, son.

  “Go away, Dad. You’re dead and you can’t help me,” he said.

  But he had made a mistake, a grave one. Sailor wouldn’t open the door because their business was done. The griffin belonged to him now.

  “And I have to get rid of it.”

  The signs had all been there from the very start: the dogs’ reactions, the tails left on his doormat, his father’s words before dying, the strange heat in his arm when the minister touched him.

  “Even my nieces knew.”

  All there, right in the open.

  “And I ignored them all.”

  He’d been weak, spineless, and too afraid to accept the truth, so he’d turned away and tuned it out, the same thing he’d done for years and years.

  “Brilliant, Jason. Just brilliant.”

  The last piece of the puzzle was why.

  But right now, maybe the why—and the how—didn’t matter. The time for sitting around and doing nothing had come and gone. He had a monster inside his skin, and he had to get rid of it.

  8

  When Jason got home, the first light of sunrise hung in the corners of the sky. He checked his watch three times, each time hoping the hands were wrong, but the sky didn’t lie. Although it had only been a little after one when the girl stood staring at the door and only a little after that when the orderly’s whistle filled the night, his watch read almost five-thirty. Five hours gone. But how?

  And I wasn’t standing at the door that long.

  He dropped his keys twice, his hands shaking.

  I was inside the other man’s memory and time just slipped away.

  Once inside, he turned on all the lights and opened all the curtains and blinds, banishing every shadow from every room, including the basement.

  He did something to my mind, but was it Sailor or the drummer?

  Jason paced in the living room until the purple faded from the sky. His head ached, not with a normal pain, but with a dark sensation of love and loss and futility. Fear, thick and unshakeable, gave his feet an unsteady rhythm. He wanted to forget his own name, his own face, close his eyes and sleep forever.

  But more than that, he wanted it all to go away. He wanted his normal life back. He wanted to go to work, meet the guys for drinks and be with Mitch. He wanted his father to ask him how he was doing. He wanted to tell him he wasn’t doing okay, because his father would know what to do. Jason didn’t. He didn’t know how to make it go away.

  Dad, you were wrong. I’m not strong. Not on the inside. Not on the outside, and I don’t know what to do.

  He just wanted the nightmare to stop.

  His father’s voice whispered soft in his head. Soft and sad. “Son, you already know it’s not going to stop. Not until you stop it. The strange kid didn’t kill Shelley. The griffin did. It came out of your arm and flew away and killed her. It left her hand as a souvenir. Just like a cat with a mouse.”

  “I know all that, Dad.”

  His father spoke up again. “It’s not going to go away.”

  “I know that, too.” Jason could hope one night it would fly away and never come back, but that sort of hope was foolish. If he hadn’t had his head in his ass, maybe he would’ve figured it out sooner. Maybe Shelley would still be alive, but how was he supposed to know?

  Tattoos were just ink on the skin; every sane person knew that. But his tattoo was something more than just ink. Sailor didn’t look like a magician, but it was some kind of magic. Horror movie magic.

  Why would he give Jason a living tattoo? What was the point? To scare him? To terrorize his neighbors by giving the griffin a taste for pets? To cause a bit of madness, mayhem and murder?

  “Jason, you didn’t read the fine print.”

  “There wasn’t any fine print.”

  “It is what it is, son.”

  “No it isn’t, Dad, and I could use a little help. I’m not okay right now. I’m really not.”

  His father didn’t answer.

  9

  Jason didn’t remember falling asleep on the sofa, but when he woke up, the late afternoon sun streamed in bright through the open blinds. The acrid stink of his sweat rose up around him, and he stumbled into and out of the shower with slow, shambling steps.

  He made coffee and drank two cups in rapid succession; as soon as he took the last swallow, the cramps struck. The mug crashed to the floor in ceramic shards, and he bent over the sink. From the living
room, his cell phone rang out, the sound lost amid the groans he couldn’t suppress. Fierce and alive, the cramps dug into his abdomen and twisted. Pain flared red in his eyes. His legs shook, sweat beaded on his forehead and the colors of the kitchen faded, then amplified. He held onto the sink; the drain pushed up the scent of old food and wet metal, and he fumbled for the faucet. Drops of cold water splashed up on his cheeks, chasing away the smell. His breath came in ragged gasps and moans and one harsh bark when his hand slipped on the edge of the sink, the fingernail on his pinkie bending back as he grabbed for purchase.

  The coffee didn’t make a second appearance. Jason slumped into a kitchen chair when the cramps faded, first to a slow burn, then a soft nudge of almost-pain. His cell phone chirped again, and he fought the urge to scream for silence. Small drops of blood welled up from underneath the nail of his little finger, a small, stupid hurt easy to ignore. The rush of feet running along the side of his house made him look up.

  Son of a bitch.

  Another index card, pale blue this time, hung on one of the windowpanes of the back door, secured to the glass with a wad of pink gum. The card wasn’t there when he made coffee, nor when he finished the second cup. The kid had come to the door while he hunched over the sink, pressed his gum to the glass, pushed the card against the gum and left. Did he leave right away, or did he stay to watch Jason twist and groan at the sink?

  I Know.

  Jason left the card on the window and raced into the living room on shaky legs. Through the front window he saw the kid running across the street, back to his house.

  The griffin. He’s seen Frank. That’s why he’s been looking in the window. He thinks it’s a pet or something. My pet Frank.

  Jason laughed out loud. The answer was there the whole time, staring him in the face yet again. Maybe he should ask the kid to come over and help kill it. He laughed louder.

  He had to catch the griffin before it got all the way out. Once out, it was too big. Its talons were too big. His laughter rose up and up. The sound—a little thin and high-pitched, a little crazy—held no happiness.

  Maybe I am. Oh yes, maybe I am slip-sliding my way into lunacy. I should call the hospital and tell them to get my rubber room ready. But I’ll need one with a window. For Frank.

  The laughter bounced off the walls and the ceilings and he couldn’t stop. It wasn’t so bad. It was horrible.

  They can bring all the doctors by to take a look. A man and his griffin. Maybe I should join the circus. The tattooed man. Come one, come all.

  He laughed until he bent over, clutching his abdomen. Until tears spilled from his eyes. Until his breath emerged in little more than wheezing gasps of air in between.

  Enough!

  The laughter stopped, as if someone had sliced it in half with the edge of a finely honed blade. A trace echoed in the room, then echoed itself away.

  His phone gave a muffled beep. He looked around the room, and it beeped again, somewhere near the sofa. He moved the pillows, checked between and under the cushions and finally found it underneath, keeping company with a small tuft of dust. Mitch had called twice; the thick, sorrowful sound of her voice in the first message made him sit down on the end of the sofa.

  “Jason, my ex’s mother died and because he’s an ass, he didn’t even bother to call me. His sister did. I’m flying out today at five. It was the only flight that had a seat available. I’m so sorry I couldn’t say goodbye to you in person.”

  Her voice broke as the message ended, but remained calm on the second, ending with the words ”I love you.” He turned the cell phone over and over in his hand; the need to hear her voice tugged deep inside.

  It was already after three. She was either on her way to the airport or there already, heading out, heading away. The silence in his house loomed large and empty. His fingers curled around the phone. But it was better this way, even if…

  He sent a quick text message and ended it with ”I love you, too.” Her response came seconds later. ”At Airport. Will call later.”

  He put his phone down with tears in his eyes. She’d be safe there, and maybe when she got back, it would all be over.

  One way or another.

  10

  A heavy knock at the door left Jason breathless. When he looked out the window, his heart jumped in his chest at the shadowy figure standing on his porch. From the window he couldn’t see the face. At least it wasn’t dark enough for the griffin, and even if it was, it wouldn’t come out yet, not until Jason slept.

  There’s the answer. Until I figure out how to kill it, I can’t go to sleep.

  He pressed his palms against the back of the door and lowered his eye to the peephole. An unfamiliar face stared back at him. His heart jumped again. Had they found Shelley’s hand already? How? What would he say? He wiped all traces of the laughter and tears from his face and opened the door.

  The years rested heavy on the face of the man standing on his porch. Mid-forties, perhaps, with dark, somber eyes and deep lines on his forehead. The purple shadows underneath his eyes spoke of late nights and early mornings.

  “Jason Harford?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Detective Collins. May I come in?”

  The words hung in the air. No introduction, no explanation, just the question.

  Give me a hand here, sir. What do you want?

  He bit the inside of his cheek to hold in a smile. Put on a small frown instead, a frown he hoped was convincing. Concerned. “Sure.”

  The detective walked in, giving the living room more than a cursory glance before he sat down. Jason sat on the opposite end of the sofa, curling his fingers around the edge of the cushion, the edge away farthest from the detective’s eyes.

  “I’m here about your wife, Shelley Harford,” he said, pulling out a small notepad and pen. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but there’s been an accident.”

  Let me guess, Detective. She won’t be able to clap her hands anymore.

  Jason’s heart sped up. “What kind of accident? Is she okay?”

  The detective scanned the living room again. Tapped the pen on the pad. “Do you know a Nicole Darrin?”

  “Yes, Shelley and I are separated, and Nicole is her, well, her girlfriend. She left me. Shelley, I mean, not Nicole. Is Shelley…okay?”

  “No, I’m afraid she isn’t. The bodies of both your wife and Ms. Darrin were found early this morning.”

  Jason looked down at the floor. A star-shaped clump of dust lay on the wood near his foot, and he nudged it away with the toe of his shoe. Dead, not just missing a hand. And both of them? Despite the air conditioning, a bead of sweat made its way down his spine.

  I knew she was dead. I didn’t love her. I didn’t even like her much, but I didn’t want her dead.

  “I…I don’t know what to say. What happened?”

  You know exactly what happened.

  “When was the last time you saw your wife, Mr. Harford?” The detective rolled the pen between nicotine-stained fingers.

  When Jason looked up and met the detective’s eyes, his mouth went dry.

  Does he think I did it? Of course he does. The estranged husband is always guilty. Even if he’s innocent. He’s always guilty at first.

  No, if they thought I did it, I would be on my way to the police station, but he thinks I might’ve been involved somehow.

  Well, weren’t you?

  No. It wasn’t my fault.

  “Three weeks ago. My father died and she came to the viewing.”

  Detective Collins’ pen scratched across the paper. “You sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a dog, Mr. Harford?”

  “A dog? No. I don’t have any pets.”

  Liar, you have Frank. Good old Frank. No pets, sir, just a griffin.

  “Ever had a dog?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  The detective ran his hand across the sofa cushion, turned his palm up, and ran his thumb acros
s his fingers. “Do you have any questions?”

  “What…what happened?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss details of the case. I think I’m done here, for now. You’re not planning any trips out of town, are you?”

  “No, sir, I’m not.”

  “Good. If you do, make sure you let me know.” He handed Jason a business card. “If I need anything else, I’ll be in touch.”

  Jason walked the detective to the door. After he closed it behind him, he put his eye to the peephole again. Detective Collins walked with wide steps down to the curb to a large, dark blue sedan, and at the end of the sidewalk, he turned and looked back at the house. Jason froze. This far away, the peephole turned the detective’s features to blurred, misshapen images. Finally, the detective got into the car and drove away. Jason stepped away from the door and ran his fingers through his hair.

  At least he didn’t have to watch the news anymore.

  11

  Jason watched it anyway. The weekend newscaster, a blonde woman with an artificial smile, had a shiny forehead and perfectly arched brows that remained still when she spoke. “The quiet suburb of Sandy Hills in Severna Park is reeling today from the suspicious deaths of two women. A cleaning woman found the bodies when she arrived for work. Details are sketchy at this time, but the police are not ruling out the possibility of foul play.”

  They switched to footage of the house. The newscaster droned on in her plastic, mock-sympathetic voice, but Jason tuned her out. Several uniformed officers stepped out of the front door; one looked directly at the camera, his face pale and his eyes shadowed.

  Did Frank come in through the window? Did they even believe he was real?

  Jason rested his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands. They weren’t providing any details because it was terrible. Unexpected tears burned in his eyes.

  The camera remained fixed on the front door, and two men in jackets labeled Coroner’s Office carried out a black body bag. The bag sagged in the middle, but each end remained flat. The tears caught in Jason’s throat. It wasn’t a body, not a whole one. It was missing a hell of a lot more than just a hand.