The Third Floor

by The Third Floor (epub)

  The third floor was shrouded in smoke.

  "Joey," Jack called. He waded through the fog, heat rising behind him, sweat pouring down his face and blurring his vision, watching for Joey or one of the others he'd seen up here, careful not to bump them.

  You can't bump a ghost, he thought. Still, he kept his eyes out, just in case, for all the good they did in this mess.

  The landing crackled again, then collapsed behind him. He turned, saw, then turned back and called again, "Joe! Come on. We've got to get out of here."

  “Help me,” Adam called.

  Jack found him through the smoke, standing below the trapdoor.

  “Where is he?” Jack asked.

  “They’re holding him while I get this open. But I can’t reach it.”

  “Here,” Jack said and lifted Joey onto his shoulders. This new version of his son was much heavier, but taller too and with Jack’s help he was able to slid the trapdoor aside and lift himself high enough into the crawlspace to lift the roof hatch cover out of the way, too. The pounding from the roof stopped and when the cover was clear Jack looked up and saw someone staring back at him.

  “Wha--?” he asked.

  A woman. Her face beamed with something that looked like relief and then she thrust her arms into the hole in the ceiling, fingers reaching.

  The children saw this and immediately leapt off their father and climbed the walls again. Their mother grasped their hands and hauled them all up through the hole and out of the house.

  The man, Dengler, clutched Jack by the arm, spun him around.

  "You won't take them from me," he said. Foul smoke blew into Jack's face. He winced.

  "I just want to get my son. We'll leave. Just give me my son."

  "These are my children."

  Jack pulled out of the dead man's grip, turned, and dove into the smoke in search of his son again.

  “Come on, Joe!” he called.

  There were screams behind him, whether from pain or fear, he didn't know, but the sound they made sent shivers up his back. His hands stuck out in front of him, the fingers flexing, searching. The smoke had gotten worse and he could see almost nothing at all.

  "Joe!"

  "Go, Jack!" someone said. It sounded like Joey, but it was deeper, older. "You can't help him now. I'm sorry."

  "What?" he yelled through the smoke.

  "I really am."

  Rough hands shoved him out of the way and the dead man held his hands up to the hole in the ceiling, reaching for the children as they rose out of sight.

  "Don't leave me alone!" he screamed up at them.

  The children looked down, their faces peaceful, brilliant.

  "Don't leave me alone!" the dead man yelled again. He roared and thrashed his fists about, knocking them into the walls, nearly shaking the house in his rage.

  Jack looked back at the stairs. The fire had claimed the second floor and the stairs were blocked. He was trapped.

  He went to his knees and crawled across the floor, his hands out in front, still searching.

  The house crackled and popped around him. The smoke in his lungs threatened to choke him, but he couldn't give up until he found Joey.

  Then his fingers hit something warm and fleshy.

  He grasped it and pulled it to him. Joey's skin was red, but the red came off on his hands and he saw it was blood.

  "Jesus Christ," he said. "Joe." He shook him, tried to sit him up, opened his eyes and checked his pupils. He found the wound under Joey's chin, the birthmark of pink skin, now turned into an open wound. Joey's shirt was soaked in blood. He saw beneath the red how pale Joey's skin really was.

  The dead man roared again, knocked Jack aside, stumbled across the room, vanished into the wall, and the smoke closed in around him. Jack heard a thunderous crack, felt the floor shift beneath him. He reached for Joey, then lost everything to blackness and gravity as the floor collapsed under him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Jack found out that the Fett Tech layoff included everyone hired in the past six months, he wasn’t disappointed.

  He could always find good work, and the further from Angel Hill, the better.

  They'd live off the insurance from the house for a while, though. At least until the cast came off his leg. The fire inspector, who'd lived in Angel Hill all his life and remembered the day the Dengler children were found dead up in that third floor bedroom, ruled the fire was caused by old wiring. The house was about a hundred years old, after all. Neither Jack nor Liz mentioned the cigarette.

  The insurance check came while Jack was in the hospital. Liz had handled everything. Charley Clark and his wife let her stay with them while Jack was laid up, but she spent most of her time at the hospital anyway.

  One day Liz was sitting in the Clark living room, going through the phone book, when her eyes fell on a picture hanging across the room. She got up and crossed the room, staring, trying to figure out what it was about the picture that drew her eye. There were four people, two men and two women. One of the men was Charley, about ten years younger, but definitely Charley Clark. And then it hit her. One of the women in the picture was Judy. Her neighbor from up the street, the one who said she’d known the Denglers. As Liz stood staring at it, Charley’s wife, Susan, came into the room and Liz asked, “Who are these people with Charley?”

  “Those are his brother and sisters,” she said.

  “I think I’ve met this one,” Liz said, pointing to Judy.

  “Yeah, Judy. She just lives up the street from your old house, didn’t you know that?”

  “Nope. I’ve met her once or twice, but I didn’t realize she was Charley’s sister. Hmm. And the other two?”

  “Boy, Charley just doesn’t tell people anything, does he? That’s his brother Ron and their other sister, Rachel. She lived in your house, I can’t believe he never told your husband about her.”

  “She lived in my house?”

  “Well . . . yeah. Her husband was Milo. She died, though. Cancer. It was really rough on Charley and the others, but when Milo did that . . .” she stopped. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I just can’t believe Charley never said anything about it to you guys.”

  “Well, we knew about what happened there,” Liz said. “Obviously. But we didn’t know you guys were related.”

  There was a moment where neither knew what to say next, broken with the ringing of the phone. It was Jack, asking if Liz could bring Lily with her when she came out.

  “No, I’m not bringing your guitar. They’re not gonna let you play that thing in the hospital.”

  “I’m bored,” he said.

  “I’ll bring you a book, you goon. Read something for a change.”

  He told her which book to bring.

  When she got there, she handed him the book and Jack opened it and started leafing through it.

  “I told Charley once that someone rational enough to seek the honest answers could explain everything in here,” Jack said.

  “Still think that?”

  “I don’t know what I think anymore.” He set The Outsider’s Guide to Angel Hill on the tray beside his bed. His original copy had burned with everything else in the house, so Liz had had to stop and pick up another copy. “But I’m very happy to still be an outsider, and very eager to get out as soon as possible and never come back.”

  They talked about where to go. Houston was brought up, but it was decided to set their sights on someplace new. Maybe use the insurance check to build a new house somewhere. A small house. One story.

  When Liz told Jack the house would have to have an extra bedroom, then she rubbed her stomach and smiled, Jack's grin wrapped almost around to the back of his head.

  Then Jack asked, "Hear that, Joe? You're gonna have a baby brother or sister."

  When the third floor collapsed, it crashed into the second floor not far below. Jack's head thudded against the floor and his vision went blurry for a second. He leaned forward and found Joey's leg, then wrapp
ed his fingers around it and tugged. He pulled his son to him, hauled him into his arms, and forced himself to his feet.

  What remained of the ceiling above him rolled with fire, threatening to fall on top of him at any second. He buried Joey's face against his chest and went to the front window, staring down and trying to decide whether he thought they could make the jump. If he laid himself out flat and took the impact on his back, Joey's fall would be muffled. Jack, however, may break his back. Okay then, that would be plan B.

  Limping into the kitchen and dining room proved just as useless; the first floor living room was under the second floor dining room, and that's where the fire started. The closest he could come to the dining room was looking at it through the doorway.

  The front door?

  The stairs were ablaze and bright with orange and yellow and red, dim in places with thick black smoke.

  If he was quick enough, he might make it.

  The fire wrapped them like a blanket. Jack slipped out of the world and let memory take him down, telling him where was the last step, where was the door, without Jack having to see for himself, since the smoke was too thick and the fire too blazing to let him see anything. He hugged Joey closer to him and moved down the stairs, through the heat and smoke, going in a blur, not thinking, just moving, just getting down and out and into cooler air and clearer vision. The fire snapped and reached for him, trying to draw him back in. Then he heard broken glass crunch underfoot, felt his shoulder bump the open front door, stumbled to the side, out the door, leaping past the stairs down the porch, and finally tumbling over himself into the yard, still clutching Joey to him.

  He crawled out into the yard with his knees and one arm, the other wrapped around his son. At the edge of the yard, he collapsed, then rolled over and let himself pass out. Before he did, he looked up at the inferno raging before him, fire spilling from the windows and roof, and thought, That's really beautiful.

  The fire department came, as did paramedics.

  Jack was unconscious, so they asked Liz what had happened to Joey; he was covered in blood. She said she didn't know. They found no wounds. They asked about the scar under his chin. She began crying and said it was just a birthmark.

  It had only been a week, but Liz could see the changes in Joey. Whatever had happened to him, whether he'd become Adam, whether he'd always been Adam somehow (Joey was six, Adam died six years ago, after all), or whatever, she thought it was reversing itself. Quicker than it had come upon him, things were different. He was shorter, for one, and in those seven days, his hair was blonde again.

  Jack and Liz hadn't been alone since it happened--what would they do with Joey? And anyway, neither of them wanted him out of their sight--so they hadn't had the chance to talk about any of it. The thought on both their minds was What does Joey remember?

  He'd been unconscious for almost two days.

  At first the paramedics thought he was dead, then they got a pulse and slight breath sounds. Smoke inhalation had gotten to him, and there was all that blood they couldn't account for, but he would be fine. Even the fact he didn't wake up for two days didn't alarm them too much. Whatever'd happened had left him drained and his body would take time to recharge.

  If asked, he'd say the only thing he remembered was waking up and not being able to see. Everything was blurry and mixed. There was something above him, some vague, faceless form. He would have thought (but not said) it looked just like his mother did in his dreams and he'd felt happy. Then the blurriness faded, replaced by form and detail, and Liz stood above him, and he'd felt even happier then.

  On the day Jack left the hospital, Joey was a smiling six-year-old. Maybe not fully back to his old self yet, but he would be.

  Liz decided she wouldn’t tell Jack that the children who’d been murdered in their house were the niece and nephews of his friend Charley. If Charley thought it was important that Jack know, he could tell him himself.

  Liz, Jack, and Joey had other things to concern themselves with now, new lives to start, not just the one inside her, but for all of them.

  The house had been destroyed. The stone walls stood empty and charred, but everything inside was ash. Liz drove by on the way to get Jack from the hospital. Joey was asleep in the back seat. She stopped the Jeep and stared at the ruins, then smiled. The whole event had been a hell of a thing, but they'd all come through it. It was like she'd thought all those weeks ago. No matter what happened, they could only scare them, they'd never be able to really hurt them. And, bruises aside, that was the truth.

  She wondered if the children had got what they were after. What had happened to Milo Dengler? What would happen with the land? They certainly weren't keeping it. If, sometime, a new house were built here, would thumping sounds in the hall awaken the occupants?

  "I think it's all done," Joey croaked from the back seat.

  Liz put her foot on the gas and the car lurched up the hill, away from the house.

  "What's that, Joe?"

  "I said I think it's all done. They got out. He just didn't want to be lonely there by himself. But they got out."

  She nodded and smiled into the mirror at him. "I see," she said. Change the subject, she thought. Don't talk about it right now, not yet, not this soon. Don't ask him anything. Let him be a six-year-old again for a while. Maybe later, some other time.

  "What color would you like your bedroom to be in our new house when we build it?" she asked. "You can pick any color you want."

  He was quiet a second and she wondered what he was doing. She glanced back, saw he was watching the ceiling with roving eyes and a grin on his face, and she knew he was thinking it over.

  "How about," he said, "um, how about . . . waffles."

  Liz smiled. "Waffles?"

  "I like waffles," he explained.

  "Waffles it is," she said.

  The empty lot faded behind them.

  Good riddance to it, she thought. This place was never home, no matter what she'd felt or thought. She rubbed her stomach. Next time. That'll be home. And for the first time, she felt secure in that.

  She turned the corner, glanced into the rearview, and took her last look at the ruins.

  END

  Thanks for reading THE THIRD FLOOR. I hope you enjoyed it. For more on Angel Hill and the house on 4th street, please enjoy this free bonus story, “In the Presence of Loneliness”:

  In the Presence of Loneliness

  “Are you into weird situations at all?”

  Now there was a question. It was certainly the last thing he’d expected to be asked when he called looking for an apartment to rent, but over the past month his desperation level had risen to unknown heights and his reply was immediate and without hesitation.

  “Man, I’m into whatever situation gets me out of my parents’ basement. I’m 35, single, and I can’t be ‘that guy’, you know?”

  “Well, I do have a house that I need to get someone into,” the landlord said over the phone. His voice wavered briefly and Tom couldn’t tell if it was bad reception or hesitation. “It’s near downtown--”

  “Perfect,” Tom blurted.

  “Well, it’s, like I said it’s a weird situation. My wife and I manage some properties for a company in California who are expanding out here and they need someone to occupy this house while it’s being renovated.”

  Again, he didn’t care about the specifics, as long as, at the end of the day, he was out of his parents’ basement for good. Then a thought occurred to him.

  “Would I have to help with any of the renovations? I’m not great with stuff like that.”

  “No,” the landlord said. “That’s all taken care of, we’ve got a contractor working there with a couple other guys and they’re doing all the work. All you’d have to do is live there. Rent free. Pay for your food and cable, if you want it, and stuff like that. The owners just don’t want the place to stand empty while the work is going on and all that equipment is there. I mean, you’d obviously have to keep the p
lace clean, take out the trash and stuff.”

  “That sounds perfect. Can I take a look at it?”

  “Sure, any time you’re available.”

  “Is now too soon?” He didn’t want to sound pushy, but his excitement was getting the better of him. If asked, he’d have said it had been the words “rent free.”

  “Sure,” the landlord said. He gave Tom the address on Fourth Street and said he could be there in ten minutes. Tom hung up, pocketed his phone and left his parents’ through the garage.

  His “situation” had been far from ideal the past month. The split had been sudden and he’d had time enough to grab the essentials. His clothes, tooth brush, computer and a handful of CDs went with him and that was basically all he’d been living with the past four weeks. He still didn’t fully understand the break-up but when he looked back he saw how distant Julie had been and, when he thought about it, he knew the signs had been there. But none of that helped him to understand why. Most likely he never would. All he could do, he felt, was try to get on with things the best he could, tackling the issues of the present.

  His room in the basement was cozy, furnished with a couch--on which he slept--and a TV, plus a bathroom over to the side where the washer and dryer were situated. A door to the garage provided private access coming in or going out. But there was that damn door at the top of the stairs.

  Tom told himself he liked his privacy and when he came downstairs he shut the door behind him. But when his mother came down to get laundry or otherwise check up on him, God forbid she make sure the door click behind her on the way up. So Tom was left in the basement watching television or reading with a half-opened door, which was placed midway between his parents’ dining room table and their television, either listening to his aunts cackling around the table as they played cards or the crime shows his father always watched with the volume blaring because the old man was nearly deaf.