“I said, open your eyes! You’re going to listen to me, and listen well. You got yourself in trouble, girl. You’re hurt and we’ve got a doctor coming to look at you. He’ll . . . I said, open your eyes. Now!” A flattened palm slammed against her cheek, though she only knew it from the sound. There was no feeling of pain. Something warm spread out around the base of her gown. She thought she had wet herself, but couldn’t be sure and didn’t really care because ...
“Damn it, Walter, help me get her to sit up.”
. . . because her body was fading away, draining like water down into hot sand, down towards the piteous crying, the scratching—
“Listen to me!”
. . . and all was going soft, softer ...
“Sit up!”
. . . until all was calm.
All was dark.
She opened her eyes to the dark, musty confines of a closet. A slice of light pooled through the crack beneath the door. Scents of pine shavings, cigarette butts, and body odour stung her nose. She worked her shoulders, her neck, stretching against a stiffness that didn’t want to be loosened.
“Uh,” she grunted, and then snapped her jaws shut. If they knew she was awake again, they would . . .
What? What will they do?
She tipped her head, listening through the door.
Are they still here? Did they tell the doctor not to come? Did they leave me to suffer alone?
There was no sound beyond the closet door.
Slowly she looked around. Against the back wall was a folded ironing board with the words, “Property of West End Motel, Flinton, Arizona” stencilled into the grimy fabric. A handful of wire hangers dangled from the rod above. Dead flies lay on the floor beside the dried husk of a scorpion. Little spatters of sand sparkled dimly in the carpeting.
She waited.
She closed her eyes.
Somewhere nearby she heard soft crying and a sound of scratching. She tried to speak, to ask who it was, but her voice was nothing more than cool breath on hot air.
She waited.
The motel room door was unlocked. Someone came in, pulling something with wheels that rattled.
Who is it? Rufus? The Prophet? What do they have planned for me? Is it Fawn, here to help me?
A vacuum cleaner turned on and run back and forth for a few minutes, the sound of water running in the bathroom, then the door opening, closing again.
Where are Rufus and the Prophet? How long have I been here?
She tried to open the door but her hands were too weak to work. Up on her knees, she leaned her weight against the door and shook the knob, but it did not turn.
“Help me!” she cried, but no one heard her, and no one came to help.
And so she closed her eyes and waited.
She came around when she heard the motel room door opening again. Two sets of footsteps, one heavy and certain, one light and shuffling.
Rufus? Are you back? Who is with you? It doesn’t sound like the Prophet. Why are you leaving me here? Please let me out!
Voices. One man, one woman.
The man sounded young. He said, “Lay here, Julie. And don’t you worry a bit. I’ll be right back.”
The bedsprings squealed. She groaned, then said, “Don’t fucking leave me, Bob.”
“I got to. You wait here. I’ll get help and everything will be OK.”
“I don’t feel OK!”
“Just cut it out. Don’t panic. Jeez.”
“I hurt! Damn you for doing this to me!”
“You did this to you, too, don’t forget!”
“My stomach hurts so bad, Bob!”
“Yeah, and the sooner I get out of here, the sooner I’ll be back. Here’s my cell. In case ...”
“In case what? I want to order a pizza? Owwww!”
“Damn it, Julie! I’m leaving!”
“Fine! Get the hell out of here.”
“Get some sleep.”
She groaned and cried out, “Fuck that! I hate you!”
The door opened, shut. Charity angled her head, listening. The woman on the bed was panting, sucking air through her teeth.
“Hello?” Charity called, but the woman did not hear her. The panting grew louder, more anxious. Then, weeping, moaning, cursing. Then the panting grew softer, slower.
Then silence.
Charity tried the door but was still unable to open it.
So she waited.
The man came back. He coughed, called Julie’s name, then said, “Ah, shit.” He left, slamming the door. The door rattled on its hinges.
Charity waited. Then she said, “Hello?”
There was a long pause, then a tremulous “Hello” in return.
Charity’s heart leaped.
“Julie?”
“Yes, who are you?”
“Charity. I’m in the closet. I can’t open the door from in here. Can you help me?”
Julie was silent, then said, “I don’t know. Let me try.”
A whisper-soft movement across the rug outside the closet. Then, “I can’t seem to grasp the handle. What’s wrong with me?”
“I think you’re hurt. I heard you and that man. Bob. You were angry, and you were in a lot of pain.”
“I was?” There was a pause. “Yes, I was. Bob left me, didn’t he? The bastard!”
“Are you still hurt?”
“Ah . . . no, I don’t think so.”
“What was the matter?”
“He’d made me have an abortion. He gets me pregnant, then takes me to some fly-by-night asshole friend of his who claims to be a nurse and can do it, no cost. No cost? Too good to be true, I tell Bob. He says the guy owes him for something or other. So I figure, I don’t want a kid anyway, and the guy’s got a medical degree. Or nursing degree. Whatever.”
“Oh.”
“But then I start cramping, and bleeding like crazy. He brings me here to this shit-bag motel ’cause he doesn’t want to take me home to my place, or to my mom’s, or, Lord forbid, to his mom’s, ’cause you know fuckin’ moms, how they can get.”
“I suppose.”
“I tell him, you took me to some butcher to save a hundred bucks? He says it’ll be OK. He says he’ll go get some real help. Gives me his cell phone. Why didn’t he call 911? I’ll tell you why, ’cause he wanted to skip town and leave me alone to ...”
There was a long, dry silence.
“To what?” asked Charity.
“Like he wanted to skip town and leave me to die or something.”
“I’m so sorry, Julie.”
“What are you doing in that closet anyway?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Via.”
“I don’t know no Vias in Flinton.”
“I’m not from Flinton.”
“Out-of-towner, huh? In for a one-night stand? Get dumped by your man, too?”
Dumped by my man? I guess that’s what happened. Knocked down by his truck and left here until he decides to come back.
Charity hesitated, then, “I’m from Gloryville.”
Julie laughed abruptly. “You’re kiddin’ me, right? That creepy place with all the polygamist fundamentalists? Where the women wear those prairie dresses and puff their hair up high?”
“Yes.”
“You running from there? Running away?”
“I was . . .” Fawn! Wait! What happened to Fawn? “I was running from there, yes! They were after me, Rufus and the Prophet!” Her words picked up speed as she remembered the truck on the dark road, the impact of the metal on her shoulders, landing in the sand. “Julie, you have to get me out of here. If they come back they’ll take me home. I can’t go home! Oh, my God, I think they killed Fawn!”
“What? Who’s Fawn?”
“Get me out, please!”
“I can’t! The doorknob won’t turn. I can’t seem to get it with my fingers.”
“Try again!”
“I can’t!”
; “They could be back any minute!”
“I can’t! I can’t! I can’t!”
“Shhh!” Charity held up her hand to silence Julie, as if the other girl could see her.
“Shhh, what?”
“Listen. Do you hear that? Scratching? And somebody crying? Really soft, though, but don’t you hear it?”
“Where?”
“I’m not sure. It’s not in here. Maybe out where you are?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Just listen.”
“I am listening! Damn, but I’m sick of people telling me what to do!”
“Sorry.”
Then Julie said, “Yeah, I do hear it. Maybe it’s in the other room, you think? Or the TV?”
“I’ve heard it before. It’s the same sound over and over.”
“Maybe somebody’s renting the same porn film. Some of that S and M shit.”
“What’s that? S and M?”
“Never mind. You’re from Gloryville, so how would you even know? Wait. Your name’s Charity?”
“Yes.”
“That’s funny.”
“Why?”
“Did you know that other Charity? The one who ran away from Gloryville, I dunno, six years ago?”
Charity frowned and put her hand to her mouth. “Who was that? I don’t remember. There are a couple of Charities in Gloryville.”
“Girl about fourteen . . . fifteen. It was in the news. Found her . . . shit, it was in this same motel. In a closet. She was dead, all banged up. Said it looked like she’d been hit by a car or something.”
“No ...”
“Never found out who did it, I don’t think. Went out to that Gloryville, talked to some folks. Seems she ran off. Musta gotten hooked up with some bad sorts who ran her down then hid her.”
“No.”
“One of the cops said she looked like she was real pretty once, in that yellow dress and all that brown hair and a little squashed Bible in her pocket. He even cried a bit on the TV. Now for a cop to cry, who’s gonna forget that?”
No.
“I think the people in Gloryville said another girl ran off with her, but they never did find her. You remember the Charity I’m talking about?”
I am her.
“Do you?”
Oh my God, I am her!
She’d heard about ghosts. Some of her brothers talked about them privately, when they were choring outdoors. She’d overheard them, talking and giggling nervously. Ghosts were leftovers from dead people. They were stuck on earth for some reason. They came out at night and shook windows and rattled doors. They could pass through solid walls and scare you to death if you looked at them. They had magic numbers they used to their advantage. Thirteen. Seven. Three. Each had a purpose that Charity did not stay to hear, because at that point her mother was calling her.
“Hey, Charity?”
Slowly, she stood, held her hands in front of her, and placed them on the closet door. Am I a ghost, then? Is that what has happened? Did I die here? Has it been six years?
Her palms flattened against the splintery wood. She felt it grow cold at her touch, and then she pushed against it. Leaned into it. And it gave way. She tumbled forward though the door and out into the room.
Julie leaped to her feet, her eyes huge. “Oh, shit! Oh, shit!” Her blonde hair was grimy and limp, her jeans soaked in blood down to her knees.
Charity straightened and stared at her hands. They looked the same to her. She flexed them. They felt the same but for the chill.
Julie backed towards the bed. “Get away from me,” she snarled.
“I . . . I won’t hurt you,” said Charity. “I never hurt anyone in my life.”
“Get away!”
Charity took a step forward, wanting to console Julie, for she saw in the girl the fear and terror that she knew had been on her own face when Rufus came at her with his correction rod or belt. And in that moment saw herself in the mirror.
She screamed.
Gone was the recognizable, sunburned face, the narrow shoulders, the slim body, and the yellow dress. Her dress was torn away at the waist, revealing ravaged undergarments. The ragged remnants of cloth were covered in black streaks and blackened blood. Her body was mangled, one arm bent with a bone protruding, her legs flayed along the shins and thighs. Her face was purpled and her jaw could be seen through a hole in her cheek.
Charity fell to her knees, clutched the remaining clots of hair on her head, and sobbed. And somewhere nearby came the sound of someone else crying softly, accompanying by a persistent scratching, clawing.
“We’re both dead, then,” said Julie. She sat on the bed, her hands folded in her lap, her brows drawn, her lip trembling.
“Yes. I died at the hands of Rufus and the Prophet. You died at the hands of the nurse your boyfriend recommended you go to.”
“So we’re ghosts.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know how to be a ghost. What do we do now?”
Charity sat on the chair at the desk. She could not feel the seat beneath her. She ran her fingers along the buttons of the phone but could not push them. She and Julie had tried several times to leave the room, only to find they were unable to step through the door. “I don’t know. Have you read about ghosts?”
Julie shrugged. “Some. Not much. We have unfinished business. I guess since we both got murdered, in our own ways.”
“I guess so.”
“How long have I been dead, I wonder? I would call the front desk and ask the date but we can’t dial, can we?”
“I can’t. Maybe you can. I’ve heard tell ghosts can move things sometimes.”
Julie crawled off the bed and went to the desk. She lifted the receiver and gave Charity a look of surprise. She pushed the 0 on the dial pad. A moment later, a voice said, “Yes?”
Julie said, “What is today?”
“Hello? Is someone there?”
“Yes, I want to know the date.”
“Hello? Hello? Who is there in room six? No one’s been in that room for weeks!”
“Please, I just want to know today’s date.”
“I’m coming down there, whoever you are! Intruders! Pranksters!” There was a click. Julie put the receiver down. “She couldn’t hear me. She’s coming to the room. Are we supposed to spook her?”
“Do you think we should?”
“I don’t know. She’s probably an OK lady, just worried is all.”
“Then let’s leave her alone.”
Julie and Charity went into the closet. The woman from the front desk entered the room just moments later, and they could hear her grunting as she kneeled down to look under the bed, peeked in the bathroom. Then she opened the closet door. They held still as she stared right through them. Then she muttered, “Must be crossed wires. Must be last night’s storm.” She went out. Julie went back to the bed. Charity went back to sit at the desk.
“Are we stuck here? Forever?” asked Julie. “Do we have to haunt the place where we died?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I wish I did. My brothers knew a bit about ghosts. I should have paid closer attention. Oh, I hope Fawn has gone on to heaven! I don’t want her wandering in the desert, all alone!”
“Shhh, listen,” said Julie.
There was the soft crying again, beneath them. The sound of scratching, clawing.
“What do you think that is?” Julie asked.
Charity shook her head. “It’s what I’ve been hearing off and on. I thought it might be a dog beneath the motel, scampered there out of the sun maybe.”
“No, it’s a human sound.”
They both listened. Whimpering, scraping. Under the floor.
Charity kneeled down on the rug. She put her face to the floor. “Who are you?”
More weeping, louder now. More scratching.
“Are you hurt? Do you need help?”
A soft, tiny voice. “Help.”
“How can I help you?”
“Help.”
Instinctively, Charity put her hand to the floor, through the floor into the crawl space, and felt about. Her fingers brushed against some fine, soft hair, and she gasped.
“What is it?” asked Julie.
“I don’t know.” Her fingers traced the hair, down to a soft jaw line, a small chest, and bony shoulder. She felt about and grasped an arm.
“What are you doing?”
“Wait.”
She pulled. Slowly, carefully, drawing her hand back up out of the floor, ready to let go of the arm should it refuse to move through with her. But it didn’t. The body came through, huffing, shuddering.
It was a small boy, no more than five. He had raven-black hair and brown eyes. He was dressed only in a pair of short trousers. His feet were bare. There was blood at the corners of his mouth, and his chest appeared sunken, and dirt and small bits of gravel were embedded in places along his skin.
“Hi, there,” said Charity. “What’s your name?”
He sniffed and rubbed his nose. It was then Charity saw the nubs of his fingers. He had been digging, clawing, and had worn them clear to the bone.
“Honey,” said Charity. “We won’t hurt you. What is your name?”
He looked at Julie, then back at Charity, not seeming terrified by their appearances. He said, “Nantan.”
“Is that an Apache name?”
He nodded.
“How did you get down there under the motel?”
The boy shrugged.
“How long have you been down there?”
The boy’s face creased up and he began to cry again. His words were broken, desperate. “He threw me in the hole. Covered me up. Said I was nothing but trouble!”
“What man?”
“The man that build this place.”
God . . . and how old is this motel? Thirty years, maybe?
Charity tried to hug him but there was little of substance to hold. Nonetheless, she remained there on her knees, her arms encircling the boy, trying her best to replicate what had been easy in life.
Then Julie said, “Would he sleep? Could we put him to bed? Perhaps he would at least rest.”
The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books) Page 14
