The Third Floor

by The Third Floor (epub)

  She wanted to blame most of her discomfort to the house and everything in it, but that nagging in the back of her head finally became too loud and she decided she couldn’t avoid thinking about it any longer. Adam had told Joey something that Liz hadn’t even admitted to herself yet. So finally she’d gone to the store alone, and when she came home, already stuffed into her back pocket with her shirt draped over it had been a pregnancy test. After seeing the results, she put the test back into the box, but the box in the bathroom trash can and changed the bag right then. It wasn’t full, but she just wasn’t ready to tell Jack yet that they were going to have a baby. There was something about it, something about Adam knowing before she knew that made her uncomfortable.

  But even after seeing the results, knowing it was true, she knew she could only attribute some of her problems to the baby. There was still the matter of the house and that feeling that something big was coming.

  The entire week following her conversation with Joey in the bathroom became one long series of hours stretching into forever with no purpose and no end.

  Once, she wished for whatever it was to just hurry up so she could eventually move on from it and lead a normal life again. And then she looked at Joey, so different now, and prayed for it to hold off a while longer.

  Finally the weekend came and Liz breathed a small sigh of relief. Whatever was coming, hadn't yet.

  On Saturday she woke up and that expectant feeling in the bottom of her stomach had lifted. Maybe whatever it was had decided it wasn’t time yet. Jack said he was going to Charley's for an hour or two and when he got back they'd go to a movie maybe and then to eat.

  Liz lay on the couch, exhausted from a night of waking up at every sound, wondering when the lot of them would thump down the stairs, toward the bedroom, coming for Liz, or for Joey. She had lit a cigarette, then remembered she couldn’t smoke anymore. She wanted to lean up and stub it out in the ashtray, but she was so tired.

  While she floated away, she kept an ear out for Joey in his room.

  Since they’d moved in, Liz knew he'd grown at least three inches, and added at least twenty pounds. It was all she could do to keep him in clothes that fit. His face had thinned. His voice was deeper--not puberty-deeper, but not the high tones of a child anymore, either.

  The birthmark under his chin was also a deeper red. This scared her the most.

  Once during the week, she wanted to hit Jack in the head with anything hard to knock realization into him. How could he not see the change? He had to see it. Maybe he just wasn't letting himself see it consciously. Because then he'd have to admit something was happening and that would disrupt his perfect ordered world.

  Still, he had to see it. He had to. He had to see that his six-year-old son looked more like a twelve-year-old boy he'd never met. There were still traces of Joe Kitch, but they were buried beneath the mask of Adam.

  And if not for Liz having spent ninety-five percent of last night wide awake and listening, she'd take him outside right now, away from this house for five minutes. Maybe she would have driven Jack to Charley's and then taken Joey shopping or something. She would have done anything else besides lie on the couch and let the nothing of the house put her to sleep.

  She would. If she weren't so damned exhausted.

  But the rhythmic rush of the air conditioner in the bedroom across the hall, and the sunlight falling through the window to warm her shoulders, lulled her into the dark.

  Jack pulled Lily from her case, wiped off her body, and sat across from Charley on a small stool in the Clark garage. He slung the strap over his shoulder and went down the strings, checking to see they were in tune.

  Charley had tuned his before Jack arrived. While he waited for Jack, he asked, "So your wife still pissed?"

  "I don't know," Jack said. "I don't think she's so much pissed now as she's just annoyed. It's not like a temper anymore--she's just on edge, I guess."

  "About what?"

  "I don't know," Jack lied. He knew exactly what was bothering Liz. She hadn't mentioned ghosts since Monday, but he knew it was on her mind. It was in the way she jumped sometimes when the air conditioner kicked on, or when the phone rang with one of its stupid prank calls. Jack made another mental note to himself to call the phone company and get the number changed just as soon as work quieted a bit and he could think. No, Liz hadn't said anything, but he knew she was thinking about it.

  Was she at home now mad at him for going off to "play with himself"? She hadn't seemed mad when he left, but over two years with Liz told him she didn't have to act mad to be fuming. She knew how to hide it, and then when she let it go, watch out.

  But she really did seem fine. And anyway, he was only going to be here an hour, maybe a little more. And they were going to spend the entire evening out together.

  "So what's it gonna be today?" Charley asked.

  "I'm thinking some--" and he played a Texas blues lick, something he'd heard on a Stevie Ray Vaughan record once, or at least an imitation of it.

  Joey'd heard them talking to him all day. He could hear their voices floating down from the third floor and vibrating into his brain. He sat on the floor in his room with an army man forgotten in his hand, staring at the wall, into it, and on past, seeing only shadow. When his legs began to move and his body to stand, his brain was still focused on that dark. When his hands reached into the toy box in his closet and dug down, searching, and finally pulling free the rag doll, the plastic softball, the toy truck they'd left him, his brain saw only dark. When his feet moved him toward the door, into the hall, and up the first step, his mind was dark.

  Adam looked down at the toys in his hands, clutched them tight in his fingers, and climbed.

  Liz had dreams of Houston. She was coming home from work and when she walked in the door, she knew something was wrong. It was nothing apparent at first, because Alex hadn't taken much, just his clothes, a dozen or so CDs, and whatever knickknacks and whatnots he'd brought to the marriage. She sat on the couch, put her feet up, and sighed. She didn't notice the sheet of yellow paper taped to the television screen for a good ten minutes. But when she did notice it, she knew exactly what it was and she knew exactly what that feeling was, she knew what was wrong.

  Her actions were in slow motion. She crossed the room with syrup-soaked feet, reached for the note with a reluctant arm, and pulled it from the screen with fragile fingers. Her chest expanded and sank in exaggerated motions as she read.

  Wake up, Liz, because Joey's gone now and Adam is going upstairs and you have to wake up. Dengler is up there waiting for him. You have to WAKE UP!

  She frowned. That's not what the note said. It had said he didn't see the marriage going anywhere, that he wasn't happy and he didn't think it fair to her to stick around just for her sake because he'd resent her sooner or later and he still cared about her enough not to put her through that.

  She looked at it again. Her fingers shook because she remembered what it had said and she remembered how she'd reacted to it.

  Liz! Wake up! The birthmark is bleeding and Jack won't make it in time. Wake up!

  No, this was all wrong. She remembered it. And this wasn't how it happened. What was wrong? Why couldn't she see it? There was something. What? She looked at it again.

  Joey is gone. Adam is here. Joey is gone. Adam is here.

  Why was that familiar? Adam? Joey? She couldn't remember and it kept changing and she'd just come home to find her husband gone. But this wasn't how it happened. She looked around and noticed, now that she looked, what was missing from the apartment. Alex was gone. Joey was gone. Adam was here?

  Joey!

  She remembered and she looked at the note again. This time it had stayed the same.

  Joey is gone. Adam is here. Joey is gone. Adam is here.

  Christ! What did it mean Joey was gone? And Adam is here? Where's here? What did it mean? Where was Jack? She didn't even know Jack yet. Alex had just moved out and she wouldn't meet Jack for another few y
ears.

  She dropped the note. It floated to the floor and vanished before it hit. She went for the door to find Joey, but the door was gone and she ran from one wall to the next searching for the way out. Then she heard a piano. Someone was playing in another room. She went into the bedroom--the only other room aside from the kitchen which opened from the living room, and the bathroom which was way too small for a piano--and found the little girl. Sarah. Her back was to Liz and she sat facing an upright piano, her fingers doing scales back and forth.

  Liz stared at her for a second, wondering what this person was doing in her apartment when she should be in Angel Hill, haunting the third floor. And that thought brought something to mind, some piece of what was wrong, but it was just out of her reach and she couldn't fully grasp it.

  She moved toward the girl and a final chord was struck. The tone hung in the air, vibrating in Liz's head, then faded.

  "Why are you here?" Liz asked. Sarah sat up straighter at the sound of Liz's voice. Then she turned, rotating sideways toward Liz. The face was dead, but not rotted. The hair was lifeless, the skin pale. The eyes were glazed over. The girl opened her mouth.

  "WAKE UP!!!" she screamed.

  Adam topped the second floor and moved into the main room. His sister sat at the piano, ethereal, vague. Since their mother's death, the Denglers had done without a number of things, and while she hadn't taken a lesson in months, their father insisted she practice, knowing their mother would never want her to quit something she showed so much promise at. So she practiced. On the bench next to her sat her doll.

  A shadow that resembled his youngest brother rolled a truck over the hills and bumps on the couch.

  The middle brother had sat at the window for hours, rolling his plastic ball back and forth across the sill while he waited for their father.

  Adam turned away from this scene, knowing it wasn't real, that the things he saw before him were just recordings the house had made, images, not even as substantial as the ghosts that roamed the house. These were just memories.

  He passed the kitchen and saw himself making lunch for the others, just as he'd done that day. More memories, more images projected by the house. But not real.

  He started up the stairs again and the front door banged open. The glass shattered and fell in a shower of sparkles. Stomping footsteps came toward him, up the stairs, and his father's image flickered in and out, hung over, haggard, and murderous.

  The ghost-image Adam came from the kitchen to intercept, knowing how bad their father could be when he'd been drinking.

  Adam stood on the stairs and watched the scene play out with transparent people.

  "I've got their lunch done," the Adam-image said. “You can go lie down if you want. I'll take care of them."

  His father grunted something and disappeared into his bedroom. In the past few months, he'd been trying to get the bottom floor turned into a separate apartment and renting it out for some extra money. The kids' rooms were on the third floor and Milo's was in the room off the second floor's main room, which they'd made the living room. They'd all been living only on the top two floors for a while and he'd learned to keep down the noise when their father was in bed.

  The door closed, the children ate their lunch, and Adam sent them outside to play in the back yard. He stayed in to straighten up while their father slept. While he gathered a few toys scattered next to the couch, he heard something in his father's room. Creeping closer, careful to be silent, he listened closer. It sounded like crying. This was nothing new. Since their mother died, his father cried almost regularly. Whether in mourning or from stress, Adam didn't know. Since his father had started coming home drunk, Adam had learned to stay clear of his path and try to keep things at home in order.

  While the Joey-Adam stood watching, the ghost-image Adam passed by on the stairs, went into the room that used to be his, and the door closed.

  He waited. His heart beat hard in Joey's chest. Within seconds, his father's door opened and he watched a shadow that resembled his father float up the stairs. In its hand was a thick wooden board.

  The day all this had happened for real, Adam wondered for a second where the board had come from, just before it slammed into his skull. Now that he saw his father brought it out from his room, he wondered again, Where did it come from? Had he been planning this?

  The rest he didn't need to see; he knew it. His father came into Adam's room, caught him off guard, and swung. The board knocked him out, bringing a swell of black across his vision and a thump against the floor.

  His father came out then, wiped his brow, and panted, "Everyone will suffer now."

  Jack played a rhythm pattern against Charley's blues lead, letting himself sink into the sound and motion of playing. He didn't pay much attention to his fingers or the changes; he'd let himself go and his hands went where they should automatically.

  While Charley went off on another run, in the back of Jack's mind, a thought was forming.

  It grew form and substance and soon moved further up.

  Charley turned toward Jack and did a fret-long slide to the top of the neck, slid his fingers into the rhythm Jack had established, and Jack took over the lead.

  The divorce, raising Joey, supporting the both of them and still finding someone to take care of his son while he worked--through all of it, this had been Jack's release. At first, it had been hard to deal with and he saw himself having either an anxiety attack or a heart attack by the time he was thirty. But once he picked up Lily and began learning to play her in earnest, every night after Joey went to bed, this was his tranquilizer, this was his joint, his cold beer, his cigarette, his cookie, his orgasm, everything one might ever need in order to relax, Jack had found in this chunk of wood with the metal wires.

  His first inspiration had been, of course, Hendrix. But after a while, Jack realized no one was ever going to emulate Hendrix. You could learn to play a Hendrix song, but that's all it would ever be, you playing a Hendrix song. So he went down a few steps, learning the original blues styles, then moving up again to the Texas Blues, Stevie Ray Vaughan in particular. SRV had been a huge Hendrix fan and his style was similar while not being as wild.

  He bought as many SRV records as he could find and then got whatever videotaped concerts he saw. He bought the Stevie Ray Tribute video and watching that had led him to a number of other guitarists he would study. Within a year, he'd drowned himself in so much blues, he could play it without thinking. He let it come up from within, down in his gut, flowing out through his fingers.

  It was something he didn't have to think about, just something that was, something that existed as its own thing with no other logic or thought. His fingers flew and his mind was free and his gut churned with deep things that came out and filled Charley Clark's garage with sound and feeling.

  And that thought in the middle of Jack's mind came further toward the front while he played and fell away from the real world, a thought that said not everything had to have a logic behind it, because some things--like this--could just be because they were and that was all.

  A part of him fought this notion, but another part felt the music rising up and felt the strings bend and slide under his fingers and this part knew that that might be right.

  For one fraction of a second, he let himself listen to that thought and he found it spoke with Liz's voice.

  "You want to find out what's wrong, go to the house and try the third floor. Whole bunch of stuff wrong up there."

  And once that much was in, it was easier for other bits to sneak in.

  "What I'm trying to tell you through your stupid fucking logic-haze is that Joey's brown eyes are now green."

  And that was true, wasn't it? But how could that be possible?

  The same way it's possible you didn't have a nervous breakdown after Joey's mother left. Feel those strings under your fingers, feel the neck against your palm, and the weight on your shoulder from the strap. Feel the sound coming from the amp, feel the
way your spine tingles when you get the slide just right and it makes that sound that makes you feel like your slipping backwards out of the world. Some things just are because they are, without reason or thought. Sometimes there is a pattern, but it doesn't always fit the world you know. Like a chord pattern. Any combination of chords will fit together, but only certain progressions will make a person smile. So why can't Joey's eyes be green?

  Because that means there really is something wrong.

  That's right. So do something about it. Quit playing with yourself and do something about it!

  His fingers broke off mid-note and the pick hit the concrete floor.

  "Shit," he said.

  Charley stopped strumming.

  "What's the matter? That was gold, man."

  Jack slid out of Lily's strap, set her aside on her stand, and switched off his amp. He dug his keys from his pocket.

  "I'm sorry," he said. “I forgot I’ve got to get home for a little bit. I'll get Lily later, I've got to hurry. So, uh, keep playing. With any luck, I'm a moron and I'll be back."

  With that, he was out the door. Charley stood dumbstruck, holding his guitar with his fingers positioned to strum again. Instead, he ended up standing there for at least two full minutes wondering What the hell?

  Liz sat up with a gasp, wide awake and panting.

  Where was Joey? She ran into his room, found it empty, then ran down the hall again, through the living room, into the kitchen, out the back door, hoping--praying--he'd gone outside to play.

  He was nowhere. At the back of the yard, Liz called for him.

  Across the alley, the old naked woman peeked out from behind her shielding curtain.

  Liz looked up at the house, dread at seeing Joey, or worse--the little girl--staring down flooded through her. The windows were empty. But the house was different. She could see that. The white exterior had darkened to a dull yellow. The windows stared back, the back door hung open, inviting her, daring her.