Loss, a paranormal thriller

by Glen Krisch

  Paul muttered next to her. His eyes panned under his closed eyelids, twitching, as if he'd encountered something unsavory lurking behind them. He grunted, drawing his shoulder toward the window as if trying to avoid something. The poor man; he'd have a hell of a headache come morning. She'd have to remember to get some aspirin in him before putting him to bed. That always seemed to work for her on the rare occasions when she drank too much.

  When she turned back to the road, something broke across the snowy road. A shapeless black mass straight ahead. Her immediate thought was: Deer, followed by roadkill.

  One bad part of living in an area surrounded by dense forest, animals far out numbered people, and in many instances, had never learned wariness over the strange metal contraptions blurring by, inches from their woodland homes. She applied the brake, gently, not wanting to skid if she hit a patch of ice, then pulled into the left oncoming lane. The black murk followed her movements.

  "What the...?" she said, her voice trailing away.

  The headlights cut through the gentle veil of falling snow. It wasn't a deer, and it wasn't an animal of any sort. It was a man, dressed in heavy winter layers, all black.

  She pulled the steering wheel to the right. The man followed, seeming to hurtle toward her as her mind raced, though in reality he barely moved at all.

  Once again, she pulled left, this time yanking, this time applying the brake, this time slamming the brake. Still, the man followed, stepping into her path. The brakes engaged, held firm, but the tires continued to slide through the snow, bearing down on the man. The Pilot took a precipitous lurch left when the driver's side wheels hit the gravel shoulder. The Pilot dipped and fell off the road, for a split second held in freefall--an altogether false serenity--then all was chaos.

  The world seemed to quake as the Pilot plunged toward the tree line. She tried slamming on the brake, but when the engine revved, she realized she'd hit the wrong pedal. Tire treads bit through the snow before grabbing hold and sending them thrashing faster toward the wall of trees. Shambling over several icy swales, dipping dangerously close to the tipping point, the windshield flashed the whiteness of the snowy embankment, then the black backdrop sky, then again, whiteness. The embankment leveled, but the car still sped across the white, wind-blasted drifts.

  She braced for the impact, her elbows locking, as if she could hold back the impending violence. Whippet-thin trees snapped like firecrackers under the Pilot's grill. Branches scratched the sides of the SUV, the hood, the passing windows, hundreds of them, shrieking like nails on a chalkboard.

  In an instant stretched beyond comprehension, an instant in reality compressed to less than a second, Angeline Chandler's life changed forever. The tree loomed ahead like a black monolith, seemingly tall enough to touch the dim winter moon. The tires ceased to vibrate against the frozen forest floor. The violent jouncing changed, became something else entirely. A sudden, final, crunching of metal. Her chest lunged at the steering wheel, but the seatbelt locked in place, blooming pain through her sternum. She heard snapping (branches, that's all, just more branches, not bones, no, no, no...) or maybe her ears were popping, like when an airplane changes altitude.

  When her head whipped forward, a black curtain fell over her, as if she had merely closed her eyes.

  She heard steam jetting close by. When she opened her eyes, the first thing she noticed was the Pilot's hood crumpled high around the base of the tree. Then broken windshield glass. The driver side remained intact, spider webbed with cracks, but intact. The passenger side glass was missing completely. Snow flakes floated through the jagged opening, landing on the empty passenger seat. The gritty whiteness melted into the seat's phantom body heat.

  "Paul!" she gasped. Her seatbelt wouldn't release--it felt like it continued to constrict as she struggled to regain her faculties. A fierce, throbbing pain pulsed where the belt angled between her breasts. "Paul!"

  The engine clinked and died and the busted radiator sputtered into silence.

  She fumbled for the seat belt latch, agonizing with the effort. When she released the belt it felt like she could breathe again, as if she'd been underwater to her limit and had just resurfaced. When she took in a deep gulp of air, the pain in her chest brought tears to her eyes.

  "Paul, baby," she said, touching the passenger seat as if he'd simply become invisible. When she looked up, she saw blood wetting the shards stuck to the windshield frame. A size eleven oxford shoe sat on the crumpled hood, tipped on its side, still tied.

  "Please." She was shivering, but didn't know if it was the cold or shock setting in. Her fingers didn't want to work the door handle. "Please, Paul, say something!"

  "Mother-fuck, open!" she screamed, willing her hands to steady. The door flew open on its hinge, nearly coming closed again after bouncing at its wide point.

  She fell to her knees in the snow. Flakes clung to her skin as she stood, melting, stealing her body heat. She no longer felt the cold. Her pain was lessening. Pushed away for now. A steady hum rang through her ears, a pleasant whirring she couldn't quite place.

  She cursed herself for wearing heels. Heels for a family party? What the hell was she thinking? Who did she have to impress? It wasn't like with Paul competing with his brothers.

  Or was it?

  Paul competed with his brothers at the drop of a hat.

  Angie competed with her extended family for the recognition of her mother-in-law.

  Imogene. Genie to her friends. Once and forever Imogene to Angie. There had never been a suggestion of "Mom." Not like Lindsey and Stephanie, who both had that consideration.

  She steadied herself on her feet as best she could manage, the snow drifting halfway to her knees. Her teeth clattered, but she felt warmer. Heat pulsed through her cheeks, sweat runnels trailed the curve of her brow. She felt along her face, ran her fingers through her hair, searching for wounds. She found none. Just the bruised sternum and maybe a sprained wrist from when her hand caught in the seat belt when the car struck the--

  "Paul!" she called out as loud as possible. She awaited a response, but when she didn't hear one, she worked her way through the frozen tangle of undergrowth. It tore at her, leaving cold, biting traces along her legs and hands. She had to lean against the Pilot's hood, forcing herself through the mess. The car was still warm to the touch, snow melting upon its surface, leaving gleaming silver streaks in the moonlight.

  The indentation in the snow couldn't be from Paul. It was too spread out, as if a plane had made an emergency landing. And the mass heaped in a mound at the terminus, it was far too dark and... mangled to be anything living.

  She heard a sound, a gasped inhalation of breath. Weak, but certainly real.

  She ran the last ten feet, fell to her knees in the snow. The window glass had sheared through the down of his coat, shredding the fabric to ribbons, sending a fluff of feathers tumbling along the forest floor. She touched the familiar cotton shirt beneath. She'd touched it a hundred times. A birthday gift she'd bought him three years ago. His favorite shirt, worn so often the soft cotton had only gotten softer with age--what Paul called "that broken in feel" whenever she would hint its retirement. Light blue with buttoned pockets over each breast (in which Paul always kept little scraps of paper, lists of reminders and notes on upcoming projects). The light blue now appeared black in the faint light. And wet.

  Please let it be from the snow, please.

  Snow wasn't sticky. Not normal snow.

  The whirring in her ears became a buzz saw. Her vision wavered, darkening.

  "Ang..." Paul said, face down, leaching blood into the snow.

  She leaned over him, close to his ear, her vision dimming to a meek glow. "Baby, don't talk. Shh, shh, shh--"

  "Angel... love my... Angel..."

  "Paul, don't."

  "You saw him, huh?"

  "Paul, who... did you see--"

  "The bastard, he--"

  Paul winced, as if enduring a mounting pain, then his face relaxe
d. He was gone.

  Angie rested her cheek against his shoulder. She shut her eyes in a prolonged blink. When she opened them several seconds later, her vision came to rest at an alcove amongst the tree trunks. A shadow shifted, grew. Stepped toward her. It was a man dressed in heavy winter clothes. All black. Like death. She blinked once, twice, when her eyes closed a third time, they didn't reopen.

  Chapter 2

  1.

  Five years earlier, Paul revealed his dream to his future wife.

  Angie couldn't see through the blindfold, but the sun warmed her face in flickering degrees and birds chirped in a riotous chorus, perhaps dozens of them. Paul's hand was damp inside hers; she gave it a reassuring squeeze. He was leading her under a canopy of leafy trees, she could tell by how the warmth of the sunlight played over her skin. The ground was soft, but wended with roots. Paul took care as he led her down the path, warning her around precarious rocks or thorny underbrush.

  "Where are you taking me?"

  Paul laughed, but didn't answer. She still had no idea what was going on.

  Though he blindfolded her long before they arrived at their destination, she felt safe. The car ride from his bungalow had been perhaps twenty minutes by her guess. After parking in a gravel lot, they'd been walking for another ten minutes. Excitement tingled through her, raising the hair on her arms. The moment was building, not just because it could be THE moment, but also because surprises just weren't Paul's style. He was always so straightforward about everything, almost to a fault. But that was one of the many reasons why she loved him. Since they started dating ten months before, she could look into his dark brown eyes and see his intentions, his deepest thoughts, clear as day.

  He may have been predictable, but was that such a bad thing when the predictable behavior was all she ever wanted? But this, the blindfold, the picnic basket he'd brought along, everything, this was a new wrinkle to the Paul she'd fallen in love with.

  "Here, watch your step," Paul said, still holding her hand, guiding her up a flight of stairs. "Good, two more."

  She was dying to know where they were. Perhaps a lookout point? Wine her and dine her with his basket lunch, sit with his arm around her as they gazed out over some tremendous view?

  Their relationship started almost on a whim, and came very close to not happening at all. They lived two blocks apart; she lived in an apartment on Winterbourne Lane, while Paul had a small bungalow on Wichita Street. She had never set eyes on her future boyfriend before the day of their first date. Even so, she had formed a well-detailed picture of the mysterious man from two blocks away for at least a year.

  She heard a door opening on a rusty hinge.

  "We're here. Are you ready?"

  2.

  The whimsical nature of their meeting came into play due in part because of their mailman's inattention to detail. Her address was 1301, Paul's, 1310.

  Since she moved in a year prior, Angie had received occasional misplaced mail meant for 1310 Wichita. The first was a post card from the Grand View Fire Department (Generic but for a scrawled message at the bottom in blue ink: Paul, Thanks for all the time and effort this year! Our charity auction wouldn't have been the same without you!). Paul sounded like a decent man. Probably a retired gentleman happy to lend a helping hand to those who do the same on a daily basis without much fan fair. She could picture him: wearing a light tan windbreaker over a blue button-up shirt, soft, well worn jeans, white straight hair parted on the side, a thick, well trimmed mustache. The next few misplaced pieces of mail didn't change her mental image. A woodworking magazine, the type for people who know the difference between a miter joint and a dove tail. And then, in one day, she received two misplaced pieces: a National Geographic magazine, which kept the image intact, but then also, the new issue of Mother Earth News. The second magazine shifted her mental image of Paul to a generation younger. He was still older than her by quite a few years. An aging hippie, perhaps. He still cared about his community, still had his own woodshop with a tool for any possible need, but he also passed his formative years in the era of Woodstock and Viet Nam.

  A week later a final piece of mail arrived that sent her on the short walk to meet this unknown neighbor. An entry form for a local adventure race held in Grand View State Park. She loved The View, as the locals called it. It was one of the main reasons she had moved from Chicago to take an office manager job in town. As she made her way down the sidewalk from Winterbourne and walked past Collins Avenue, and on to Wichita, she scanned the entry form. It was a single sheet of glossy paper, tri-folded, the race information embossed over an impressive photo of the rugged dirt trail winding through a steep uphill. Since high school she'd had the on again, off again habit of running a few miles on the indoor track at the local YMCA. She'd often tell her coworkers that she'd tried exercise, again and again she'd tried it, but it just wasn't taking.

  This was a fifteen kilometer race on trails. If her math was correct, that was around ten miles. The race crossed three streams and touted the roughest stretch of trails this side of the Mississippi. A long injury waiver took up most of one side of the form. It also had small photos of the winners from the year before.

  Under the blurry photo of the male winner: Paul Chandler, 31, Grand View.

  She found the house, a charming split level, and rung the doorbell. When the door opened, her long-crafted image of Paul Chandler became charmingly moot. She had been so far off base she was left tongue-tied.

  "Hello," he said, offering a smile that only hindered her ability to speak. When she didn't immediately respond, he leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms as if amused by her silence. When his smile widened, creases formed along his eyes. His bearded face was tan, but more so weathered, as if he spent a considerable amount of time outside in the elements.

  This is my dream, she thought.

  That was how it all began.

  3.

  After opening the creaky door, Paul guided her inside. The room sounded different; birds still sang a riotous chorus, but it was a muted sound, and the wind had stopped blowing against her face. She still wore the blindfold he'd put on her before they left his bungalow. The question now was--where inside were they? She was giddy with anticipation. If she didn't trust Paul implicitly, she would've started feeling nervous by now.

  Still holding her hand, he said, "This is my dream."

  "Can I take this off?"

  "Not yet. Here, stand right... there." He gently guided her with his hand at the small of her back. "I'm going to tell you a story."

  "I like stories," she said then bit her lower lip. "Is it true?"

  "For the most part. Ready?"

  "Go for it."

  "The story starts in 1946. Home from the war and with a new bride, Harvey Winchell bought a hunting cabin in these woods. He carried Betty over the threshold, setting her down in the middle of the tiny living space. She opened her eyes, which she had promised to keep closed since they left his second-hand Studebaker. She was appalled at the sight. The place was ill-lit and musty smelling. It was small, and I mean small. A single room with a wood burning stove, two rickety folding chairs and a cot. Cobwebs hung from the window frames like drapes. She could see sunlight through the cracks in the walls."

  Angie was listening to the story, enjoying the warm timbre of his voice, but she was also trying to figure out what else he was doing. While she remained standing where he'd left her, his voice traversed the room, at points sounding inches away, and seconds later, as if he had his back to her on the far side of a large room.

  "Their marriage almost ended when she opened her eyes. Betty was not a country bumpkin. Half the town had tried winning her heart before Harvey came out on top. She had high expectations for how she would be taken care of. And when she opened her eyes, she had no expectations for a future with Harvey. She left him. Just like that. She stayed with her cousins in town, which in those days was quite the scandal in such a small town--a wife living away from her hu
sband."

  "Paul, I don't want to live in a cabin."

  He ignored her comment, continuing, "Her reaction motivated him. First, he cleaned the tiny cabin so he could sleep there at night without fear of getting nibbled on by the forest creatures. Then, he started building."

  "Building what?" She had to know. She felt like tearing the blindfold off, but didn't want to ruin Paul's plan. She inhaled deeply, hoping to not smell the mustiness of an old cabin. She exhaled, only sensing a small amount of dust in the cool air.

  "He went to work building his dream home. Working alone from sunup to sundown, finishing with the first thaw the following spring. All that time Betty refused to see Harvey, all that time he worked alone, in secret." Paul paused in his telling. She could hear him rushing about, opening items from the picnic basket he'd lugged through the woods. Jar lids, linen napkins, a bottle of wine… no it was champagne, she could hear the fizz of bubbles. And the flick of a lighted match, followed by its sulfurous smell after he blew it out.

  "Can I help you?"

  "No, no, no. Just about... okay. Done." He took her hand once again, and this time his fingers were clammy. He brought her around to a table, guiding her to a waiting seat. "I'm going to take off the blindfold, but keep your eyes closed."

  "So what happened?"

  "What?"

  "To Harvey and Betty?"

  "He won back her heart. They lived happily ever after. Now open your eyes."

  When she did, Paul was on one knee, holding open a red velvet ring box. A diamond caught the flickering candle flame and held it in its many angles. Her breath caught, caught so hard she didn't realize she was holding it.

  "This is my dream. This home, Harvey and Betty's home."

  The room sprawled, but only rough two by four studs hinted at interior walls. The floor was bare to the sub-floor.

  "Harvey had a heart of gold, but he couldn't plaster a wall to save his life. The building is rock-solid otherwise. When I gutted it, I inspected every inch. Drywall goes up next week."