Samantha- The Haunting

by A A Bavar

  Patricia laughed and shook her head. “Just make sure you don’t linger, okay?” she said, and added in a sincere tone, “Thanks, Joss.”

  “I love you, Tricia… now go get ready, or you will end up opening the door in your towel!” said Jocelyn with a smile. “Hey, tell you what. I’ll keep an eye on the lasagna but it’ll cost you a piece… I take bribes!”

  Nineteen minutes later, Patricia walked into the living room just as the doorbell rang. She looked over at Jocelyn, who was sitting on the couch with a cup of hot tea, and said, “Punctual as always. One of the things I like about Paul. How does this look?” She playfully twirled around, showing off her outfit. “I just got the dress and heels. Aren’t they great?”

  Jocelyn nodded. “I think what’s going to slow you down tonight are those lace-up heels!”

  Patricia giggled nervously, her cheeks turning red. “Oh, you’re so bad,” she said, and walked to the front door. She paused, took a last look at her outfit, and swung open the door with a wide smile. “You’re just in…” she started saying, and stopped.

  “Not the person you were expecting, dear?” said a chiding, melodious voice.

  Patricia stared at the face looking back at her. She was a beautiful and meticulously dressed auburn with piercing eyes. “I’m sorry, can I help you?” asked Patricia.

  The woman smiled, exposing a row of perfectly straight, white teeth, her blood-red, fleshy lips stretched thin. “As a matter of fact, you can. Why don’t we go inside and I’ll explain in painful detail.” She took a step forward, forcing Patricia back.

  “Excuse me? Who are you? I think you’ve got the wrong address,” said Patricia, her voice rising, a look of concern on her face. “Joss!”

  “Oh, it’s the right address, honey. And it doesn’t really matter who I am, but for the sake of courtesy, and because I really do believe that people should know their accuser and executioner, and because I also just love saying it… I’m Samantha DesJardins, your worst nightmare.” Samantha winked at Patricia and took another step forward. “Now, let’s go inside and start the party. I never shy away from a good game of darts, especially when it’s private and I’m in charge. I do love your ensemble, by the way. I’m sure Paul—”

  “Did you call?” asked Jocelyn from behind Patricia. “Who’s this?” she said, pushing the door open even more and standing beside Patricia.

  Patricia half turned to Jocelyn, not wanting to turn her back to Samantha, and said, “I don’t know, but—”

  “Hm… this puts a damper on my plans for the evening. I wasn’t expecting additional company,” said Samantha, while tapping her chin with her index finger. “Okay, change of plans. You know Paul? The guy you were planning to fuck? Well, he’s accounted for, hitched, hooked, compromised… happily and completely married. Get it? Bitch!”

  Patricia’s jaw dropped in shock.

  “What? Are you sure?” blurted Jocelyn. “I knew there was something wrong with that guy.”

  “What? No!” exclaimed Patricia, her head snapping from Samantha to Jocelyn and back. “I would’ve known… is he married to you?”

  Samantha put her hand on her chest where the Hope Diamond usually rested. “Well, that’s where things get complicated, honey,” she said with a sneer. “Technically, he’s married to Wendy… for now.”

  “Wendy? What the hell? So who the hell are you?” shouted Patricia.

  “I’m the messenger. The person who takes care of business… if you know what I mean. So now that you know, not that the two previous warnings were unclear, you should really, and I mean really, keep away from Paul because there won’t be a third warning,” said Samantha, and licked her lips. “Lucky for you, your friend here was with you tonight.”

  “Oh my God… you mean the Joker…” Patricia’s voice trailed off. “Are you threatening me?”

  Samantha shrugged, turned, and walked away.

  Paul opened his eyes to relative darkness. The timer controlled ceiling lights were off, leaving the small, bluish nightlight over the door as the only source of illumination. He blinked several times, trying to clear his mind of the fog that had settled in, numbing thoughts of Patricia, Samantha, and Wendy crashing against his skull. His heart started to pound frenetically against his chest as a feeling of dread enveloped him once again. “Patricia… I have to warn Patricia,” he mumbled, his voice shaky and distant.

  Slowly, Paul rolled to his left and cringed as he pushed himself into a sitting position. His head was throbbing, and a dull pain shot down his right shoulder to his lower back. Luckily, nothing was broken. The padded floor had done its job. He grabbed the railing and stood, his legs shaking, and glanced at his watch, his back to Wendy. It was 7:48 p.m. From the corner of his eye, he noticed her head move, but didn’t turn to look back. If he had, he would have noticed – for a split-second before she transformed – that it wasn’t Samantha lying there. It was actually Wendy.

  “I don’t know what you did, Samantha,” he said under his breath, slowly making his way to the door, “but at least you’re out of my head. Have a nice life.” Paul put his finger on the button beside the door and pressed it repeatedly, setting off a loud and intrusive buzzer in the hall outside. He shook his head and half turned towards the bed behind him. “You know, you and that crazy bitch, Wendy, deserve each other… a couple of crazy—”

  Suddenly, the door swung open interrupting Paul, and Nurse Brown rushed forward almost crashing into him. She looked up, her eyes wide with surprise. “What in God’s name? What are you still doing here? I thought you left! The room was dark…”

  Paul pushed past Nurse Brown into the hall, his stride almost normal. “Well, obviously I’m still here,” he said, and continued quickly down the hall. “You should keep an eye on Ms. DesJardins, she’s literally a blast!”

  Paul slammed the Veneno into third gear, swerved to the left of the truck he was stuck behind, and floored the gas pedal. Like a finally released caged animal, its prey in sight, the Veneno pounced unforgivingly, its tires digging into the asphalt, pressing Paul harshly back into his seat, and propelling them forward at breathtaking speeds. Paul’s fingers gripped the steering wheel hard, his knuckles white, as he swerved in and out of traffic.

  “Just a few more minutes, Tricia,” he said under his breath. “Be safe for just a few more minutes and I’ll be there…” Paul glanced at the built-in GPS in his dashboard, ETA 2 minutes/23 seconds, and despite the fear that was clutching at his insides, gnawing its way up to his throat – in his mind, the Hollywoodized image of a crazed Wendy attacking Patricia – he grinned. He was the knight in shining armour speeding to her rescue.

  Paul took the right onto Patricia’s street, tires screeching, and came to an abrupt halt in front of her condo. Without even taking the time to turn off the car, he jumped out and ran to the front door, his eyes scanning the front of the house. The lights in the living room were on and everything looked serene. He rang the doorbell once, twice, three times. Almost immediately, he heard footsteps hurriedly approaching from the inside.

  “Oh, thank God,” he exclaimed, just as the front door was harshly pulled open. “I was so worried… oh, I’m sorry. I was expecting Patricia. Who are you?”

  Jocelyn stared at Paul, a deep frown on her face. “Mr. Blast, I assume?” she said, and immediately held up her palm. “That was rhetorical, if you couldn’t guess. I know exactly who and what you are… and now, so does Patricia.”

  Paul looked at her confused. “I don’t understand, but I need to talk to Tricia. It’s urgent,” he said, and leaned to the side, trying to see past Jocelyn into the hall.

  “Tricia? Tricia… that’s for close friends and family, which you are not! For you, it’s Ms. Fowler… while she’s still working at Clearwell, that is. Now, please leave.” Jocelyn stepped back and started to close the door.

  “What?” exclaimed Paul. His hand shot out, stopping the door from closing. “What in the world are you talking about? Tricia… I mean, Patricia and I
are—”

  “What?” interrupted Jocelyn angrily. “What are you exactly? Apart from a two-timing, lowlife, cheating husband, that is. God knows I didn’t want to do this, especially because Tricia is very upset and asked me not to, but I just can’t keep quiet. Did you ever stop to think how much you hurt her? What this makes her?”

  “But it’s not true!” interjected Paul. “Who told you that?”

  “So you’re not married?” said Jocelyn, hand on her hip, head tilted slightly to the side. “It’s all a lie, is it?”

  Paul shifted his weight to the right, unconsciously mimicking Jocelyn’s stance. “Well, technically I am, but it’s not like that. I know, I know… even I can hear how idiotically cliché that sounds, but it’s true… we have an arrangement,” said Paul, his eyes catching movement in the hall. Patricia was standing a couple of steps behind Jocelyn, listening. “Patricia, please… listen to me.”

  Patricia reluctantly approached the door, but Jocelyn stepped in front of her, blocking her path and Paul’s view. “No! That’s enough. You need to leave,” she said, and started to push the door shut. “You’re nothing but trouble, Mr. Blast.”

  “Okay, okay!” pleaded Paul. “Just tell me one thing. Was it Wendy who came here and told you all this nonsense?”

  “Wendy? Your wife? No. She’s probably at home feeling distressed and heartbroken… wondering what she did to deserve this. It was a friend of hers… Samantha.” Jocelyn closed the door, the metallic click final.

  Paul walked into his office, his pace urgent, and headed for his desk. He picked up the phone, and without bothering to sit, dialed the security desk. It was answered on the second ring.

  “Good evening, Mr. Blast. This is Andrew Smith at the security desk. Is there anything wrong?”

  “Andrew, I need to talk to Mr. Marino. Is he there? It’s urgent,” said Paul, his fingers tracing the edge of his polished, mahogany desk.

  “He’s in the building, sir, doing extra rounds. Since the incident the other day, we’ve established more frequent—”

  “That’s fine,” interrupted Paul, his attention focused on a shiny object placed neatly in the center of his desk. “But I need to talk to him now! Find him and have him call me ASAP.” Paul hung-up, reached over, and picked up the object. It was an ornate, antique envelope opener, delicately worked with a mixture of gold and silver, with a double edged blade, its tip stained with blood. But it wasn’t his. He stared at it for a moment, his eyes cold, calculating, then walked to the large window to the left of his desk. The night was clear, the city lights visible as far as he could see. It could have been a beautiful night.

  “What the hell, Wendy?” whispered Paul, slapping the envelope opener repeatedly in the palm of his hand. “What the hell?” he said louder, and lowered his head, putting his left hand on the window for support.

  Suddenly, there was a loud knock on the door and a voice behind him said, “You wanted to see me, Mr. Blast?”

  Paul spun around, startled. “Lou… yes, yes. You were in the service, right?”

  Lou nodded. “Yes, sir,” he replied, and continued standing in the doorway. “Marine Corps, lance corporal, sir.”

  “Great. Any of your fellow servicemen work in the private sector? More like surveillance type services?” asked Paul, taking a step towards his desk.

  Lou lifted an eyebrow. “Actually, sir, I have a buddy, Ray Forzley, who was with the FBI for years, but now works solo. He’s the best in the business. Very discrete… he’ll get you what you need. But he’s also very blunt and to the point, which sometimes rubs people the wrong way,” said Lou, his eyes shifting from Paul to the window behind him. “Um, sir, you’re bleeding… your left hand…” Lou pointed to the window.

  Paul side-glanced at the window, a bloody palm print on the glass, then at his hand. There were a couple of clean, surgical cuts running horizontally across his palm. Blood was running freely, dripping from the side of his hand. “What the hell? How sharp is this thing?” he said, holding the envelope opener under the lamp on his desk, its edge intensely reflecting the light, blood smeared across the blade. “It’s like a scalpel, I didn’t feel a thing, but now…” He grimaced and closed his hand.

  “Sir, I can run down and grab the first aid—”

  “No, no! That’s not necessary,” interrupted Paul, and put the envelope opener back on his desk. “I need you to call your friend and ask him to come here immediately,” he said, as he pulled out a handkerchief from his suit pocket and wrapped it around his hand. “Do you think he’s available? Money is no object.”

  “He’ll be here, sir. Just give me fifteen minutes… anything else, sir?” said Lou, already turning to leave.

  “No. Just tell him to get here ASAP.”

  Ray Forzley, in his early forties, heavyset and broad-shouldered, close to six foot four, wearing a black suit and white shirt with the collar open, nodded and walked to the window. His movements were fluid, almost cat-like, primed by years of training, and inspired immediate confidence if not downright respect. He was the kind of man you wanted in your corner, never the kind to come calling at your door unexpectedly.

  Ray silently looked at the city lights outside for a few seconds, his eyes betraying intense thought, then turned to Paul, momentarily allowing his attention to be interrupted by the blood stain on the window. “Mr. Blast, I’m known for being blunt. It’s the best policy for this line of work. I’m only interested in the facts and usually don’t comment on a client’s situation and how they arrived there – or at me for that matter, but I have to say that your predicament is, to put it bluntly, fucked up. Arranged marriages or partnerships that go south for whatever reason, especially ones made out of convenience for money and power… like yours, are quite common. It’s always one side getting greedy, wanting to weasel out of the agreement by finding dirt on the other for leverage. And believe me, most of the time it all backfires and I’m called in for damage control.” Ray paused, a slight frown on his face. “But to agree to commit to a mental institution someone who you suspect of murder, who you were having a relationship with, and who you say had become so obsessed with you as to commit murder… to then marry that person’s best friend, slash benefactor, who was the mastermind behind the whole thing in the first place, is… again… fucked up. No judgment,” said Ray, his eyes leveled on Paul’s. Paul looked back, his face emotionless, and leaned against the edge of his desk. “So, as I understand it, based on the formal and written agreement of a year ago between you and Mrs. Jewett, you were to greatly benefit financially to keep your mouth shut, and to guarantee your share of her fortune, you married her… but were free to live your life as you pleased. There was no physical relationship between the two of your, nor did she expect that from you. Correct?”

  “Yes, that was one of the conditions, and until a couple of weeks ago everything was fine. We barely saw each other or got in each other’s way. Wendy went about her business, and I went about mine, until…” Paul looked down at his bandaged hand. Lou had brought in the first aid kit and wrapped his palm in gauze, but the blood was beginning to seep through.

  “Until you started seeing Ms. Fowler.” Ray finished the sentence. “That’s when Mrs. Jewett, Wendy, started following you… threatening you. But why do you think these two things are connected? Couldn’t it simply be that she’s had a change of heart in regards to sharing her wealth with you and is trying to somehow get rid of you? It’s usually always about the money, and since you never had a relationship with her—”

  “No, I don’t think so,” interrupted Paul, shaking his head. “It’s not about the money. It’s about me. She told me I was hers, that I belonged to her. She wants me, and if I don’t stay away from Patricia she will hurt her… again,” Paul looked down at the detailed Persian rug under his feet and ran his fingers back and forth through his hair. Without looking up, he said, “I can’t explain it, but Wendy’s behaviour is… is similar to the way Samantha’s was before she was committed. If
I were superstitious or believed in things like that, I’d say she was possessed or something. The way she looks at me. The things she says, her tone… I know, I know, it sounds crazy!” Paul continued looking down at the rug, the deep color and intricate pattern helping him focus.

  “Why do you think she’ll hurt Ms. Fowler?” asked Ray in a cool voice.

  “Why? Haven’t you been listening? Because she’s already done it twice, dammit!” Paul said, and stared at Ray, gritting his teeth. “I can’t prove the guy in the restaurant was hired by her, or that she was wearing the Joker costume when she attacked Patricia, but I know in my gut it was her. It’s got psycho, manipulative bitch written all over it, and believe me, that’s exactly what she is. She’s been playing me all this time and I don’t know why!”

  “Playing you? How?” asked Ray.

  “I don’t know. If I did, I wouldn’t need you,” blurted Paul, and held up his hand apologetically. “What I do know is that you need to make sure tonight was the last time she gets close to Patricia. Maybe she’s sending me a message with the lie about being Samantha, toying with me, tightening the leash? I don’t know, and I don’t care. But Wendy never does anything without planning every detail, and never without a reason. That’s what scares me,” said Paul, and stood. He stared ahead, past Ray, into the night sky beyond the window. “I think she’s killed before, and if not, I’m pretty sure she’s capable of killing to get what she wants… just like Samantha.”

  Ray cleared his throat. “Killed? As in murder?” he said calmly without moving a muscle.

  Paul shook his head, his eyes refocusing on Ray’s stoic figure, and nodded. “It’s just a hunch, a terrible feeling I got but… I just found out that Samantha’s doctor, the one Wendy used to commit her, and the nurse who was taking care of her are both dead. And I think Wendy had something to do with it.”