House of Rain

by Greg F. Gifune

  “You witnessed this?”

  Gordon nods.

  “How did that make you feel?”

  “Frightened. Angry.”

  “Talk about that.”

  “I thought we were done for the day.”

  Amaya slinks past, sits in her chair and crosses her legs. “Do you want to leave, Gordon? Or would you like to stay and talk awhile?”

  Although Amaya is half Japanese, sometimes when he looks at her, all Gordon can see are ghosts calling to him from the past. The eyes, he thinks, it’s always her eyes, dragging me back to that jungle, that hooch, the fire, the young Vietnamese boy, my gun to his head and everyone screaming. Chaos. Goddamn chaos. All he sees are that young man’s tears. Because that boy knows he is about to die, and no matter what he tells this crazy G.I., nothing is going to change that. He will kill him; execute him right there in his home in front of the rest of his family as his village burns. Maybe because the boy really is Viet Cong and refusing to tell what he knows. Or maybe because he can kill him and no one will stop it. Memories of blood spraying from the young man’s temple, and the look in his eyes as he falls and dies at Gordon’s feet return to the blackest corners of his mind from which they came.

  “Are you trying to help me?” he asks.

  “Do you think I’m trying to help you?”

  Standing there awkwardly, his mind begins to race. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think I’m trying to hurt you, Gordon?”

  “I…don’t know.”

  “Why was Katharina in the hospital?”

  “You know why.” He feels his anger rising, fighting with the fear, the two becoming one. “You’ve read the paperwork, you know what happened.”

  “I’d like to hear you say it.”

  He stumbles, pushes one of the chairs out of the circle with his heel. “Why?”

  She puts her coffee down on the floor, then places her hands neatly in her lap. “I’m not trying to torture you, Gordon. I’m here to help you.”

  “It’s all coming back on me now,” he says. “Is that what you want to hear?”

  “What’s coming back on you?”

  “The past, the…the memories…”

  Amaya stands, but slowly, cautiously. “That’s a good thing, Gordon. I know it’s painful and frightening, but it’s essential in terms of the healing process.”

  “Healing?” he growls. “There is no healing. Not from what I’ve done.”

  Her dark eyes hold his. “What have you done, Gordon?”

  What have I done? God in Heaven, what have I done?

  “I’m an old man,” he says, just above a whisper. “A tired, broken, lonely old man. What would anyone want with me now?”

  “My name, Amaya, is Japanese,” she tells him. “Do you know what it means?”

  He shakes his head no.

  “Night Rain.”

  Gordon’s hands again begin to tremble. Still clutching his hat, he backs away, out through the opening in the circle of chairs he made previously. “What do you want? I—I made a mistake, it was just thoughts in my head, I—It’s not real. None of this is real.”

  White and black balloons falling…

  “It’s all right, Gordon. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Muffled screams echo down a dark corridor…

  He continues backing up, closer to the door, shuffling step by step.

  Blood…so much blood…

  Amaya follows after him, walking slowly. “Do you want to hurt me, Gordon? Is that it? You want to hurt me?”

  “I never wanted to hurt anyone,” he gasps, reaching out with one hand to feel behind him for the door.

  “But did you hurt someone, Gordon?” Amaya’s face and eyes seem darker suddenly, less attractive…less…human…

  “Please…”

  “Do you want to hurt me?” she asks, slowly moving closer still. Her tongue slips free of her mouth and gently traces her pink lips. “Don’t be afraid, Gordon. It’s going to be all right. Everything’s going to be all right if you just let me help you.”

  His hand finds the door. He pulls it open, stumbles into the dark hallway and moves as quickly as his exhausted body will allow.

  When he reaches the front doors to the building, he falls against them, out of breath, and looks back.

  There is no one there. But from the shadows comes a terrible whisper…

  “Night…Rain.”

  Gordon pushes through the doors, rushes into the storm, and the open arms of those waiting within it.

  FOUR

  Though it is not yet night, the storm has left the streets dark and seemingly empty. But somewhere beneath the rain, perhaps within it, there is the sense of life, of motion, of rapid, frenzied movement that may or may not be entirely human. It strikes Gordon as more insectlike, a colony of ants working in furious unison just below the surface, there but hidden in vast tunnels, their bodies and eyes and limbs alien and primal, the antithesis of human. And yet familiarity resides within them, a vague suggestion that they, this other, and he, are connected and intertwined. These strange creatures are much closer to human than anyone wants to admit, because if one looks closely enough, long enough, one begins to see oneself in their cold, dark, insect eyes. One begins to feel them within oneself. And one begins to understand.

  A foghorn groans in the distance, its sorrowful cry muffled by the downpour. Gordon hurries down the next alleyway he comes to. Need to get off the main streets, it’s not safe, they—they’re watching me. I can feel them watching me. At the end of the alley stands a rotting chain link fence too high for him to climb. Luckily there is a hole torn in one section. Someone before him cut an opening in the fence, then bent it back enough for most people to squeeze through.

  Pulling his raincoat in tight around him, Gordon forces himself into the opening and through to the other side. Another stretch of alley awaits him. Rain rushes from the gutters, flooding the pavement. The water is nearly to his ankles.

  He leans against the brick wall of one building, pulls the brim of his hat down, tucks chin to chest and tries to catch his breath. Something tells him to look up. Something instinctual. Gordon obeys. His eyes drift upward, through the rain, and focus on a second-story window filled with pale light. A female figure undresses in the window; her silhouette segmented into pieces, cast through an open venetian blind. A trick of the backlight, it looks as if someone has sliced her body into a series of identically spaced portions that somehow still move as one.

  The rain spatters against his face and eyes. He closes them and paws them dry. But in the darkness, he sees.

  People in formal dress celebrating and laughing as champagne flows…and there, across the room…a vision...

  Gordon watches the shadow-woman undress, but it is not her he sees. It is only Katy. Always Katy. His sweet, wonderful Katy, the only woman he has ever wanted. The only woman he has ever loved.

  All the years they shared fill his mind, rush past like a sped-up film.

  The most beautiful woman he has ever seen…watching…watching him…before looking away with a coy smile…those gorgeous eyes, so full of love and understanding…seeing only him…

  So many wonderfully happy years spent together—so much love, such joy—and all of it gone like a wisp of smoke. No. Not gone. Stolen.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”

  The woman moves away from the window, and after a moment, the light goes out. “You lied to me,” Gordon mumbles. “You lied to me.”

  “Of course…”

  He moves on, comes out onto a busier, well-lit street. The city is alive here, louder, bustling and vibrant. Cars rush past. People populate the area, hurrying in the rain. Umbrellas everywhere. He sees an available cab out in front of a diner halfway down the block. Harry insisted on paying the tab at the bar earlier, so Gordon still has eighteen dollars in his wallet, but doesn’t want to blow it on a cab. He squints through the rain, scanning the area until he locates a subway entrance diago
nally across the street.

  He crosses the street, ignoring the blare of car horns, and then hobbles down the stairs and into the subway station. Free of the rain, he removes his hat, shakes it out, then replaces it as he moves along the tunnel toward a bank of turnstiles. He is not alone here, but it is not as busy as it is on the street, which he finds odd.

  Everyone seems suspect now. Perhaps they always have.

  Despite the weakness and aching in his legs and back, Gordon keeps moving, head down and avoiding eye contact whenever possible, while still keeping a lookout for those stalking him. I know you’re there, he thinks. And you know I know.

  Moments later he finds himself waiting on the platform with a few others. His train arrives quickly. He boards and gratefully collapses onto an open bench as the doors slide closed and the train lurches forward. They slink off into the dark tunnel, the interior lights blinking once, then twice, as the train picks up speed.

  There are only four other people in the car. A tall, middle-aged Sikh with bloodshot eyes stands near the doors, even though there are plenty of places to sit. A young man in a wrinkled business suit, raincoat and scuffed wingtips sits slumped on the bench to Gordon’s left, a leather briefcase across his lap. Clearly inebriated and either asleep or passed out, he sways with the motion of the train, eyes closed and mouth ajar. A couple in their late teens sits directly across from him. Both eel thin, they are dressed entirely in black, share an apparent fondness for black eyeliner, black lipstick and black hair dye, and sport a wide array of piercings and tattoos. Holding hands, they sit quietly together in a posture both sweet and formal.

  Gordon wonders what they all see when they look at him.

  An old man on his last legs, he thinks, a wasted shell of what was once a useful and vibrant human being, a wrinkled old bag of bones waiting to die.

  He has a chill he just can’t seem to shake, but bundles up in his raincoat as best he can anyway. It does no good. Maybe Hell isn’t a lake of fire at all, but an endless world of ice and snow, a freezing block of ice. Or perhaps Gordon knows better. Perhaps he knows all too well exactly what Hell is. Because the question is not does Hell exist, but where and how does it exist?

  And if there is a Hell…

  The drunken businessman groans in his sleep and slumps a bit farther down in his seat. His briefcase teeters precariously at the edges of his knees but somehow remains where it is.

  No one but Gordon seems to notice.

  The train barrels around a bend in the tunnel, and the lights blink once more.

  Moments later, the train makes its first stop, and the Sikh gets off. The goth couple rises to leave as well. “Hey, mister,” the girl says in a squeaky little voice that in no way suits her, “you okay? Do you need help or something?”

  Gordon looks up at her questioningly. He wants to answer, to thank her for caring, and to let her know he’s not okay. But the words catch in his throat and slowly die there.

  The couple stares at him with their black eyes. “C’mon,” the boy finally says, dragging his girlfriend along with him by the hand. “We’ll miss our stop.”

  Gordon watches them leave, then turns and looks out the window so he can still see them as the train pulls out. The couple stands on the platform, the boy obviously annoyed but the girl still concerned.

  Gordon’s eyes remain locked on hers until the train pulls out, leaving the couple behind as it disappears into darkness.

  I must look awful, he thinks, like death…like death…

  He turns around, sits back, and realizes someone else has taken the couple’s place on the bench across from him. A woman in a long coat, a red dress and black high-heels sits before him, her head bowed so that her face is hidden behind thick auburn hair. Gordon cannot be sure of her age, but on cue, the woman raises her head just enough to reveal that she is much younger than he is, and has likely not yet seen her thirty-fifth birthday.

  But there is something else. He knows this woman.

  No, I…it’s not possible…

  The woman bows her head again, and her face disappears from view.

  You’re mistaken. It can’t be, it—it’s not her. It’s not possible.

  No one but this woman boarded at the last stop, so Gordon is now alone with her and the passed-out businessman. He does his best to sit very still, and tries to control the tremors of fear throttling him from head to toe.

  It looks like her, that’s all. It looks like her, resembles her, but it’s not her because it can’t be. It’s just your tired, failing old senile mind playing its nasty tricks on you again, making you think you’re seeing and hearing things that aren’t there.

  But Gordon knows better. He knows full well what is and isn’t there.

  She’s dead. You know she’s dead.

  The train sways as something on the floor catches Gordon’s eye. A dark crimson puddle is slowing spreading out from beneath the woman’s shoes, creeping across the floor between them, growing as it moves toward him.

  “You’re bleeding,” he hears himself say, his voice raspy and shaking. “You there, you—ma’am—you’re bleeding.”

  The woman slowly raises her head. Blue eyes peer out through the hair hanging in her face. She is void of expression, and her eyes are glassy and lifeless, like the soulless gaze of a doll.

  Gordon slams shut his eyes, squeezing them tight before slowly reopening them in the hopes that the woman will be gone. She is not.

  It can’t be—he knows this, understands it—and yet there she is, still sitting right there in front of him. He is not mistaken. He is not asleep. He is not drunk or stoned. “Am I crazy?” he says aloud. “Or am I damned?”

  “Maybe you’re both,” the woman replies in a deadpan voice that gurgles as if she’s drowning in his own bodily fluids.

  Gordon struggles to his feet, reaches for a handgrip hanging above and manages to catch one before falling. He holds on with all his might, but his muscles are not what they used to be, and a burning sensation fires up through his shoulder and down his back between his shoulder blades. The blood on the floor is closer now, so close that he has to shuffle to his left to avoid stepping in it.

  The woman reaches inside her low-cut dress with a pale hand, clearly searching for something. But as her hand goes deeper between her ample breasts, the sickening sound of unseen things tearing and breaking follows, and then comes the sound of something wet being wrenched free. The horrible sounds echo through the car.

  No, I—I have to get out of here, I—

  Gordon whirls round, still clutching the handgrip, and sees the door at the far end of the car. He has to make it there, has to get away from this now or he’ll never leave this train. He knows this. He will die here.

  “Lamb of God,” the woman says in her gurgling voice. “You take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.”

  Gordon heads for the door but stumbles and falls against the wall of the train. He twists and pushes himself back to his feet, just as the woman removes her hand from her cleavage to reveal what she’s gone looking for.

  Her heart, dripping and coated in shiny crimson, there, in the palm of her bloody hand…

  “Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, grant us peace.”

  Mind shattering, Gordon staggers toward the door. When he reaches it, a strange and sudden calm washes over him. The fear remains, but his body and mind are no longer fighting it.

  He watches her awhile, lying there next to him. She isn’t asleep but her eyes are closed as if she is. He reaches out, tenderly strokes her cheek, then brings his fingers up and runs them across her forehead. She is warm and soft and beautiful. And he is happy. For the first time in his life, he is happy. Not only because he’s loved, but also because he loves. He loves her so much he sometimes doesn’t know what to do with himself or his emotions. Sometimes it literally feels as if he might burst apart with joy. Of course their life together isn’t perfect, but my God, it’s good. And it’s as close as he can ever
hope to come. He has never known anyone like her.

  Her eyes open and she blinks a few times, bringing him into focus.

  “What is it?” she asks dreamily.

  “Nothing,” he tells her, stroking her forehead. “It’s just…I love you.”

  She smiles, and it is the most beautiful and wondrous thing he has ever seen.

  “I love you too, Gordon.”

  “Sometimes I wonder why.”

  Katy arches an eyebrow as she slinks an arm around his waist. “Why would you wonder about such things?”

  “I can’t imagine what you see in me.”

  “Well, what do you see in me?”

  “You’re smart and beautiful and loving,” he says. “You’re patient, and kind.”

  “You’re all of those things too.”

  He laughs lightly. “No.”

  “To me you are.”

  “Maybe to you, but—”

  “Isn’t that all that matters?” She winks playfully.

  He kisses her cheek. “Maybe it is.”

  “You worry too much about the past.”

  “You know I don’t like to talk about—”

  “I understand.” She places her finger to his lips. “But you have to let it go. You have to forgive yourself and let yourself be happy. You have to let yourself be loved. We found each other. We found happiness with each other. Who knows how long any of us have in this life? Embrace it, enjoy every moment while we can.”

  “Do you remember the night we met?”

  “Of course, don’t be silly.”

  “The New Year’s Eve ball. You were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.”

  “Stop,” she chuckles.

  “It’s true.”

  “I’m not the most beautiful woman anyone’s ever seen.”

  “You are to me.” This time he winks.

  “Touché.”

  “You didn’t like me much that night, but I loved you the moment I saw you.”

  “I didn’t know you.”

  “You weren’t interested.”

  “I gave you my phone number, didn’t I?”