The Haunting of James Hastings

by Christopher Ransom

  The basement was one huge room, all the walls removed, wooden beams holding up the main floor. I nosed around, too frightened to sit down; the tiger-striped couch might bite me. The three hulking antique safes were too large to have been lowered down the stairway. Rick did not tell me what was inside them, only boasted of having cut the foundation open to slide them in. One entire wall was a black lacquer cabinet holding stacks of VHS movies starring Burt Reynolds and a library of porn with all media formats represented. Classic issues of Oui and Swank and Knave were displayed in sealed plastic, as a kid would store Batman #2. Another wall featured a wood case with a glass front and a mounting board of red velvet, a track-lighted showcase of nunchaku, throwing stars and knives, balisongs, a dozen pistols, and a blowgun. The cork ceiling panels alternated with panels of gold-marbled mirrors, like a checkerboard. There were bean bags and a dart board and a regulation-size shuffle board. Budweiser lamps. Posters of hot rods and twenty-year-old calendars of bikini-clad women with Farrah hair, the winter months featuring purposeful protrusions of muff.

  I won’t belabor the first hour of conversation, our meet and greet before we got around to the interesting part of the morning. Suffice to say that, as he eased into his buzz, Rick Butterfield’s contribution to the small talk revealed only the following:

  He wasn’t just obsessed with prison, homosexuality, fist fighting, pussy, violence, criminals, firearms, strippers, tiny breasted women, authority, anal sex and ‘dropping massive loads’ - all of which he referenced, peppered his speech with, or attempted to discuss in absurd detail, with alarming and then numbing regularity. No, no. Rick Butterfield seemed to believe the world, and all human interaction in it, had as its chief aim the seeking of, and revelry in, as many of these pastimes as possible, the coup de grâce of a life well lived being the arrival at some sort of miraculous locale where all of them happened in one night, Rick was the king, and everybody present looked like ‘that real sexy hooch from Charles in Charge’.

  I was all but certain Rick Butterfield was a true psychopath, and I confess that after my fourth beer and second shot of Beam I could not stop laughing at him and with him. He was in his own way as charismatic and singularly warped as Ghost. He just didn’t have talent to mask his proclivities. I kept telling myself one more beer and then, if I hadn’t learned anything useful, I would go home.

  ‘So, how exactly did you two meet?’ he asked from behind the bar. He was pouring another round into two new frosty mugs and had just finished his third anecdote from his time served as a security consultant at Chuckwalla, the medium-security facility in Blythe. That would be California’s most remote, sweltering, middle-of-nowhere prison.

  ‘She didn’t tell you?’ I was on a bar stool against the wall, afraid to turn my back on him.

  ‘Nope.’

  He knew I had lost my wife, and of course he must have known about Arthur’s suicide. That would have been big news in the SP. Had Annette told him why Arthur killed himself?

  ‘She moved in next door,’ I said. ‘It was strange because my neighbor, this old guy named Mr Ennis, died of a heart attack. I was beginning to think the place was, uh, sort of cursed when she showed up. Another week or two, I might have been gone.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Rick was staring at me again. He had a way of doing that, almost as if he were trying to decide if I was real, or the way a crazy person looks at an imaginary friend. ‘So, uh, how’d you make your move? You lay the Ghost rap on her? I bet once she knew who you were she threw it right atcha, huh?’

  ‘Rick, buddy,’ I chuckled. ‘I don’t think you heard me earlier. I’m not Ghost. I had nicknames and we were . . . but you keep saying . . .’

  I might have been speaking Portuguese.

  I snapped my fingers a few times. ‘I was his surrogate, a fake, a double. It was theater, man. You know that, right?’

  Rick was bobbing his head. ‘How long before she let you put it in her deuce hole?’

  I reared back. ‘Come on, seriously? This is what we’re talking about?’

  Rick looked hurt. I’d just put a ding in our new buddyhood. ‘So, you’re like one of those sensitive types, is that it? Used to rap about roofies, guns and bitches, but now you’re a saint?’

  I didn’t bother correcting him this time. I was tired of trying to explain the difference. ‘With the whole shop talk, already. Give it a rest?’

  Rick laughed, his hard belly jostling. ‘I’m just fucking with you, man. Jesus, she’s really got your balls in a sling.’

  It was like high school. Soon as I pushed back, I felt like a jerk. ‘I can take a joke as much as the next guy. It’s just been a long week, all right? A fucking strange week.’

  Rick was pouring two more beers, additional to the ones we were holding. I put a hand out and he cut me off. ‘What’s your hurry? Give her some time to cool off.’

  I settled back onto my stool. ‘She didn’t tell you why we came back?’

  ‘She didn’t tell me you were coming back at all. Otherwise I wouldn’t a ganked you.’

  I decided to tell him. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe I just needed to say it again, the way I had told Bergen, considering things were getting worse.

  ‘You’re gonna laugh,’ I said.

  ‘Swear I won’t.’

  I told him everything that had happened since Annette arrived. The fall in the tub, the paintings, the signs of disorder around the house, the shoes buried in the yard, the phone calls. I told him about Lucy. Her total loss of sanity before running into traffic. The only thing I left out were the more serious changes in Annette since we came back. The lashing out in the furniture store, the foul tongue, the disappearance of her freckles. The possession, I thought drunkenly, wondering idly for a moment if I should consult a priest. Some things are too awful to say out loud.

  ‘Most of it is attributable to Lucy,’ I said, nearing the end. I took a long pull of the Bud. ‘That makes sense, I guess. But I’ve seen things that can’t be explained.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘You have a boy running around the neighborhood?’

  ‘A boy?’

  ‘About this high.’ I held my hand out above the barstool. ‘Wearing a black hooded sweatshirt. Very pale?’

  Rick stared at me, giving away nothing.

  I continued. ‘There’s a kid’s bike in her garage, little green BMX thing. Does she have a son? Did she and Arthur have a son?’

  ‘Nope.’ Rick dabbed his thumb in a bowl of salt and licked it.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I would know if she had a son,’ Rick said.

  ‘The other thing is, she’s not really herself since we came back. She’s always got a headache. She’s turning mean. She’s sick. Like bad flu sick.’

  Rick nodded. ‘She’s moody.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s worse than that. She’s not well, Rick. Annette is not well. She says things no one else could know. No one but me and Stacey.’

  ‘Stacey?’

  ‘My wife.’

  ‘Spooky, huh?’ He laughed. ‘You look like a fried egg. Have another drink.’

  I felt stupid for talking too much.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘That business with Arthur. That was rough on her. She shouldn’t be here. It’s too soon. And I told her to sell that house a long time ago. This place is going to hell.’

  I was exhausted. What else did I need to ask him?

  He did another shot and then said, ‘So, you plan on sticking around?’

  ‘I don’t have anywhere else to go. I miss my wife.’

  ‘To the ladies,’ Rick said, pouring. I did another shot. Rick did another shot. He went back to talking about women and cars and prison escapades. The music got louder. We found ourselves singing along to Steve Miller’s ‘Abracadabra’. Rick showed me a rare gun and fired a shot into his wall. I laughed and he let me fire another shot into his wall. The wood paneling smoldered. At some point I could not hold myself up on the stool and sli
d over to his couch. He was laughing and turning up the music. I nodded off to ZZ Top singing about legs and a woman who knew how to use them.

  ‘Wake up. Wake up, Ghost. Yo yo, cornbread. You need to eat.’

  I snapped out of my dead slumber, still drunk.

  ‘I made a Tostino’s.’ Rick held out a paper plate with burned slices of gray meat and orange sauce.

  My stomach roiled. I waved the slice away.

  Rick gobbed it whole and spoke through a mouthful of mush. ‘She hasn’t called. You want a ride home or you gonna sleep here all night?’

  I rubbed my eyes. ‘It’s night already?’

  Rick laughed. ‘You fucking pansy lightweight.’

  I stood and made sure my pants were buttoned. They were, but my brain seemed to be gyrating. ‘Holy fuck. What time is it? What have you been doing all afternoon?’

  ‘Working on my car. I dropped by the house to see if she was around. She didn’t answer the door. Won’t answer the phone. You sure she came back with you?’

  I did not understand the question.

  ‘I would have seen her by now,’ he said.

  ‘You think I came here alone?’

  ‘Maybe she’s the ghost!’ he said, and laughed. ‘Maybe none of this is real.’

  ‘That’s not funny,’ I said. ‘I need to go home.’

  Rick poured me a beer and I shoved it aside, then thought I might as well wash the sleep out of my mouth and took a gulp. It actually tasted pretty good.

  ‘She’s there,’ I said. ‘This was dumb. For all I know she might have killed herself by now.’

  Rick kept shaking his head. ‘I still don’t understand how you got here,’ he said. ‘Where’s your car?’

  ‘Annette drove.’ My head felt as though it had been run over. This made me think of Lucy. I almost threw up. Something was wrong. I looked around, feeling punked. ‘Are you fucking with me? Did you slip something in my drink?’

  Brah-haw-haw-haw! ‘You’re crazy, Ghost.’

  My temper neared its boiling point. ‘Maybe so. Fuck, man, you have no idea what I’ve been through.’

  ‘Do tell?’

  I turned to give him a mouthful about what it was like to lose your wife, but then I saw myself in the big Budweiser mirror behind his bar and almost screamed. My hair had turned white. It was standing up in a spiky mess and it was snow-white. Peroxide white. Ghost white.

  Rick sipped his beer and nibbled at another slice of garbage pizza. ‘What?’

  ‘What did you do?’ I shouted. ‘What the fuck did you do to me?’ I was up off my stool. I shoved my beer at him and it fell off the bar and splashed onto his pants before shattering on the floor.

  ‘Hey, hey!’

  I pointed at him. ‘You motherfucker. I’ll kill you!’

  ‘Calm down, what is your problem?’

  ‘Look at me! Look at this!’ I yanked at my hair.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You dyed my hair? Are you kidding me?’ I looked around for the evidence. A brown bottle of peroxide, a towel, anything. But I saw nothing, and my scalp felt the same as it always did. My hair was dry, a little oily, as if I had not showered in two days, which I hadn’t. ‘You think this is cute? What the fuck is wrong with you, man?’

  Rick reared back. ‘You think I dyed your hair? What the fuck is wrong with you? Your hair was like that when I met you this morning, dumbass. When’s the last time you looked in the mirror?’

  He was utterly calm. And I did not believe him.

  ‘This is not - I’m not. Just get me the fuck out of here. I’m done. You, her, this whole scene. I’m done with all of it.’

  Rick looked more frightened of me than I was of him. ‘Fine by me. Take it easy, man. Jesus. I’ll give you a ride home. Let me get my keys.’

  It was night time again. Every third or fourth street lamp was on, as if the association were purposefully running them at twenty or thirty per cent to cut costs. As a result, the neighborhood was dark for long stretches, Rick’s headlights sliding over abandoned houses and cars as we worked our way through the derelict maze. I felt far from civilization, the reality of the desert creeping in all around me. I had not eaten in some twenty or thirty hours and the beers and shots had gone straight to my blood. I felt sick in his company and it didn’t help that Rick was doing almost sixty through the neighborhood. After a few minutes I didn’t recognize any of the houses and sensed we were going the opposite direction of Annette’s.

  ‘Isn’t her place back the other way?’ I said.

  ‘Gotta make my rounds. Sit tight, I’ll get you home in a jiff.’

  His rounds. ‘You work for the association?’

  ‘Association? Ain’t no fuckin’ association.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m just a homeowner looking out for my investment. ’

  This was not going to be fun.

  Rick hooked a hard right onto a steep road, his tires squealing and the undercarriage scraping as we jounced through the drainage dip and then climbed, the car roaring as if the engine had some kind of blower or four-barrel carb. Whonh - whooOOOOOHNNNH! We topped out quickly over the hill, floating on the cruiser’s soft suspension. As soon as we nosed down, a little orange glow appeared up ahead and Rick killed the lights.

  ‘Jackpot.’

  He used a driveway apron to weave onto the sidewalk and quickly straightened out so that my half of the car was riding on the curb while he leaned toward the street. We continued this way, me dipping with every driveway and rising again, for about a hundred yards. I tasted Jim Beam and bile. The orange glow was in a house, now visible behind a garden-level window. As we approached, still pushing thirty, the glow enlarged and then snuffed out. Rick slewed onto the lawn, braked to a halt and left the cruiser idling, which it did in near silence.

  I expected him to bolt immediately, but he just sat there watching the house through the windshield. In his blue pseudo-uniform, his acne-scar pitted face pasty with booze sweat, eyes glassy and low, he looked like a soldier of fortune.

  I couldn’t stand the silence, but as soon as I opened my mouth he threw his right arm across my chest.

  ‘Shush.’

  I shushed.

  ‘They know,’ he said softly. ‘Now it’s only a matter of how many will stay, how many will run, and which door.’

  ‘Who?’

  Rick looked sideways at me, his smile a red-lipped blade. ‘The Crawlers.’

  While I waited for an explanation, his left leg raised itself steadily and there was the sound of tearing Velcro. His left hand passed something over his lap and into his right hand, which extended to me.

  Ankle piece.

  I shook my head and whispered, ‘I don’t want that.’

  ‘Yes.’ The voice of the grave. ‘You do.’

  He saw the fear in my eyes, the need to understand.

  ‘They crawl across the desert, into other kings’ castles, ’ he said. ‘Our mission is to let them know there’s order in this kingdom, and make sure they never come back.’

  A door slammed. We both looked up. It wasn’t the front door; that was still closed. Another clamor farther away, footsteps bounding over wood, probably on the back decking.

  ‘Rock ’n’ roll, Ghost.’

  The ankle piece fell into my lap. I hesitated.

  He pointed his gun at my face. ‘Stay here you’ll die.’

  Rick’s door did not so much open as explode, ejecting the big man like a sprinter from the starting blocks. Except there was no grace, only raw power. He moved over the lawn with the frightening spurt of a buffalo startled from his herd. His boots threw a chunk of sod as he darted right and disappeared behind the house.

  Stay here you’ll die. Did this mean one of them would come out the front door and start shooting at me? Or that, if I didn’t provide back-up, Rick would punish me?

  I followed him. God help me I exited the car and, though I could have run away, I followed him. I would show him what happens to people who d
rug me and dye my hair.

  Cool air in the desert night. My breath steaming alcohol fumes. Adrenaline rush across the yard and over the split-rail fence like a steeple chase, ready to pistol-whip any bitch, damn it feels good to be a gangsta.