by Amy Cross
“He's going to be fine,” I tell her finally. “You'll see.”
I consider telling him about Josh's referral to a child protection team, but I feel as if that might just push her over the edge. There'll be time to deal with that bullshit later.
“He'll be fine,” I say again, before realizing that I'm repeating myself. “He'll... He'll be okay. Better than okay.”
“Are you sure he didn't say anything last night or this morning?” she asks, her voice filled with fear. “This can't have come on so suddenly, he must have mentioned feeling sick.”
Stepping over to the bed, I realize there's no point telling her about the most recent photos that emerged from that goddamn printer. She'd only start worrying, and right now I need us both to stay calm.
“He had trouble sleeping,” I admit cautiously, “but he didn't say he felt bad. Then again, maybe there were symptoms I missed.”
“You can't blame yourself,” she replies. “I should never have gone to stay with Dad. I swear, I could sense something wasn't quite right before I left, but I thought I was just annoyed by that stupid printer. I should have listened to my instincts.” She pauses, before leaning closer to Josh and kissing the side of his face. “What if it's something serious? What if he has to stay in hospital for a long time?”
“He won't,” I reply, making my way around the bed and putting a hand on her shoulder. “He'll be out of here in no time. I promise.”
“Please wake up,” she whimpers, squeezing his hand even tighter. “Mummy and Daddy are right here, Josh. Please, you just have to follow our voices and come back to us!”
As she continues to hold him, I can't help looking at the bruises on his arms. I didn't cause them, and neither did Mary. So who did?
Chapter Twelve
Shutting the apartment's front door, I hesitate for a moment, listening to the silence. Finally I turn and see that Mary has stopped next to the coat-rack, and now she's simply staring over at the door to Josh's room.
I wait for her to say something, but she seems lost in thought. Worse than that, maybe. Frozen. Broken.
I feel the same.
“It's probably just for one night,” I tell her finally. “I'm sure tomorrow he'll...”
My voice trails off as I realize how hopeless everything seems. With the second round of tests having proven inconclusive, Josh is being kept in while the doctors try to come up with another idea, but there's already talk of full-body scans in the morning and potentially getting opinions from specialists on the other side of the country. The doctors aren't telling us much, but they seem much more worried now. Mary and I both wanted to stay at Josh's bedside all night, of course, but we were told that wouldn't be possible. Instead, we've come home to get a few things he might like, and we're going straight back to the hospital at first light.
I never realized how empty and quiet the apartment would seem without him here.
“Maybe it's something genetic,” Mary says suddenly, turning to me. “Do you know of any illnesses in your family?”
I shake my head.
“But maybe -”
“We have to let the doctors do their job,” I tell her, stepping closer and placing my hands on her shoulders. “I guarantee you that by the time we get there in the morning, they'll know what's wrong and they'll have started treating him. He'll probably be sitting up, all alert and happy, and this whole crazy nightmare will be over.”
“Do you really think that?” she asks.
“Of course I do,” I reply, even though I know deep down that I'm being more than a little over-optimistic. Still, it's hard to believe that modern medicine can't figure out what's wrong with one little boy inside of a few hours. “There's going to be -”
Suddenly we both hear a shuffling sound coming from the front room, and we turn to look over at the empty doorway.
“What the hell was that?” Mary whispers, heading over and looking through. She glances around for a moment before turning back to me. “You heard it too, right?”
I step over to join her, but the front room is completely empty.
“Maybe it was the wind,” I suggest, “or... I don't know, maybe it was someone in one of the other apartments. You know how sound carries sometimes in this building.”
We wait in silence for a moment, but now the apartment is once again completely quiet.
“I'm going to lose my mind,” Mary says finally. “I swear to God, I just keep thinking about him in that hospital bed with all those wires. We should never have left him there. We should have insisted!”
“Why don't you take the first shower?” I reply. “While you're doing that, I'll find us something to eat. I know you're probably not hungry, I'm not either, but we need to eat. And then we should try to sleep, even if it's just for an hour or two. We need to be ready to support Josh when he finally wakes up. And he will, I promise. I feel it in my gut.”
That's a lie. I don't feel anything at all, except an aching sense of hollowness. In fact, if my gut is telling me anything at all, it's that there are going to be no miracles here. Seven-year-old boys don't just collapse and fall into comas unless something's seriously wrong.
A few minutes later, while Mary showers, I finally admit defeat in my search for some kind of meal in the fridge. Heading through to the hallway, I grab the car keys.
“I'm going to the take-out place on the corner!” I call out, already slipping into my jacket and shoes. “Back in five!”
Once I'm in the elevator, I check my phone and see that I have a missed call from an unknown number. When I check my voice-mail, I find that someone from the local child protection team wants to schedule a meeting in the next few days to discuss the bruises on Josh's body. There are people out there who think Mary and I have been beating our son. I don't know if Mary can deal with this right now.
***
It takes more like twenty-five minutes, but finally I get back to the apartment with a pizza box balanced in my arms. Heading straight through to the front room, I find Mary sitting at the table wearing nothing but a towel, looking at some pieces of paper. Her wet, matted hair is dangling down to her bare shoulders, but she seems totally engrossed by whatever she's reading.
“Hey,” I say as I head over, “I told them to hold the pineapple, but they added it anyway. Figures, right?”
I set the box down and grab some plates.
“You won't believe what was going on outside the building,” I continue. “There were these two women arguing with each other like crazy, all over a stupid parking spot. I thought they were about to tear each other's hair out. It's nuts how angry people get sometimes.”
I open the pizza box, before realizing that Mary hasn't said a word since I got back. Turning to her, I feel a sudden jolt of concern as soon as I see that she's looking at the various print-outs, including the ones that came out last night while she was at her father's house. I could have sworn I tossed those all into the trashcan, but now they're spread out on the table.
“I can explain,” I tell her, spotting the picture of the woman on the bed. “I didn't want to worry you, but -”
“You didn't want to worry me?” she replies, her voice tense with shock. She's still looking at the pictures, as if she can't tear her gaze away. “Are you serious? These things came out of that printer and you didn't even think that I should know?”
“I was focused on dealing with Josh's sudden illness,” I reply, stepping over to her. “They're totally unrelated to -”
“You don't know that!” she says firmly, setting the pictures down. “What the hell did you bring into our house, Steve? What is that machine? What if Josh has seen one of these awful photos?” She turns to me, and after a moment I see a hint of realization in her eyes. “Did he see one of them?”
“Honey -”
“Which one?”
“Does it -”
“Which one?” she shouts, her voice filled with panic.
“This has nothing to do with...”
&nb
sp; My voice trails off. I pause, before pointing at the picture of the naked woman.
“Oh my God,” she stammers, “how can you have let him see something so awful?”
“I didn't let him,” I reply, “he took the picture from the printer before I even knew it existed. I got it back from him this morning and I told him there was no reason to worry.” I wait for a reply, but she seems too shocked to say anything. “I dealt with it, Mary,” I add finally. “I talked to him, I made sure he was okay, and then we went to sleep.”
“And then he got sick?”
“That's just -”
“Why didn't you tell me?” she asks, getting to her feet. “Why didn't you tell the doctors? They asked us if anything unusual had happened, they asked us for anything that might be relevant!”
“How is this relevant?” I ask, trying to stay calm. “Last time I checked, you couldn't get sick from looking at a bunch of photos. Even if they are completely gross.”
I pause, before gathering the various print-outs and folding them over so they can no longer be seen. I swear, ever since that printer came into our apartment, things have been going wrong. I don't believe in bad luck or bad energy, or any of that bullshit, but I can't deny that the printer's arrival coincided with some pretty messed-up crap hitting our family.
“I know you believe in some out-there stuff,” I continue, choosing my words with care so as not to upset her, “but Mary, please, we have to stay rational here. The pictures have absolutely nothing to do with whatever's happening to Josh. They're just a coincidence.”
“There might be a link!”
“You think a haunted printer made our son sick?” I ask, unable to hide my incredulity. “Is that what you're saying? Are we trapped in some kind of B-movie and the soul of a serial killer got stuck in the goddamn thing?”
“Not the printer,” she replies, “but the photos might have some kind of... weird energy, some kind of malignant force that comes with them.”
“I knew you'd overreact,” I mutter. “You're redirecting your anxiety over -”
“Don't tell me what I'm doing!” she hisses. “I'm genuinely concerned about those images! They have really strong negative energy, Steve, and children are particularly susceptible to things like that.” She pauses. “Have you contacted the police yet?”
“The police? Why the hell would I talk to the police?”
“Because those look like photos from some kind of murder scene!”
Unfolding the print-outs again, I look at the picture that shows the naked man. After a moment, my gaze is drawn to the open wardrobe doors, and specifically to their mirrored fronts.
Slowly, a sense of fear starts creeping through my chest.
It can't be...
“That might be some kind of serial killer,” Mary continues, her voice trembling with shock. “There might be someone out there doing awful things to people, and he's accidentally slipped up and sent those images to our printer. I know it sounds crazy, but you have to go to the police and at least let them check it out. Maybe they can figure out where the pictures were taken!”
I know she's waiting for me to reply, but all I can do is stare at the picture.
“Steve?” she says after a moment. “Did you hear a word that just came out of my mouth? We need to go to the police and let them figure out where those pictures are coming from!”
“I don't think we need the police for that,” I reply, feeling numb with shock.
“What do you mean?”
I turn the picture so she can see it, and I point at the mirrored wardrobe door.
“See that reflection?” I ask. “That's the exact view from our bedroom window. None of the other apartments in this block have the same view.”
She stares at the picture for a moment. “What are you saying?” she asks finally, but I can tell from the fear in her eyes that she already understands.
“I'm saying...” I pause, trying to make sense of the madness. “I'm saying that these pictures have to have been taken in our bedroom.”
Chapter Thirteen
“It's not possible,” Mary says a few minutes later once we're in the bedroom, looking at the spot where – in the photo – the naked man was standing. “The furniture's different, there's no way...”
Her voice trails off.
“I thought this building was new,” she adds finally, turning to me. There's a hint of fear in her voice, and shock too. “The estate agent said it was new! She said no-one else had ever lived here! So how can there be ghosts already?”
“It is new,” I reply. “We drove past it a couple of times while it was being built, remember?”
“But maybe -”
“No-one lived here before us,” I add. “We moved in the day after it was finished. There were workmen here until the last moment.” I pause for a moment. “And there's no such things as ghosts. Let's just focus on coming up with a rational explanation.”
“So maybe someone crept in during the last night before we moved in,” she suggests. “He did all these things, he took all these photos, and then he left.”
“And he brought furniture with him, just for the occasion?” Looking down at the photo in my hand, I try to come up with some other explanation that makes even a scrap of sense, but I honestly can't think of a goddamn thing. All I know for certain is that based on the reflection in the image, I'm certain that the picture was taken in this room.
“We have to go to the police,” Mary says after a moment.
I can't help sighing.
“We have to!” she continues. “Steve, this isn't some fun little mystery for us to solve! Those are photos of a possible crime scene!”
“Or they're a prank,” I suggest.
“What kind of sick monster would do something like that?”
“The world is full of sick monsters who'd do something exactly like it.”
She shakes her head, clearly unable to believe such a thing.
“It's the only explanation,” I continue. “It's CGI, special effects, something like that. I know it looks life-like, but the whole thing's probably been put together in a computer.”
“You can't possibly believe that!”
“It makes more sense than anything else,” I point out, before sighing. “Our son is in the hospital, Mary. When he gets out, we can worry about these photos and what they mean, but right now we can't afford to let ourselves get distracted. I know you're trying to find an explanation for why Josh is sick, and I feel the same, but you won't find that explanation in these pictures. And you won't find it in talk of ghosts and things that go bump in the night, either.”
I pause, before heading over to the shredder under the desk. Crouching down, I flick a switch on the side and then I slowly feed the print-outs one-at-a-time into the slot at the top. After thirty seconds, all that's left is a set of paper strands in the container.
“I don't know about you,” I continue, getting to my feet, “but I don't have time to worry about all this crap with the photos and the apartment right now. I need every scrap of energy for Josh.”
I wait for her to reply, and finally she takes a step back and sits on the end of the bed. She puts her face in her hands, and after a moment I realize she's sobbing.
Heading over, I sit next to her.
“I just want him home,” she weeps, as I put an arm around her shoulders and hold her tight. “I don't care about anything else. I just want our little boy back!”
Chapter Fourteen
The sound is sudden and brief, but loud, and it wakes before I even realize I was sleeping. Opening my eyes, I stare up at the darkness and it takes a moment before I figure I must have finally nodded off.
The apartment is quiet now, but I know I heard something.
Rolling onto my side, I check the time and see that it's 1:30am. Not long now until we can start thinking about going to the hospital. I roll back over and look toward Mary's spot, but of course she's not there. A moment later, I hear a very faint creaki
ng sound coming from the kitchen, and I realize that she probably gave up trying to sleep a long time ago.
Hauling my ass out of bed, I stumble through to the hallway, and I still don't quite feel awake. I rub the back of my neck and lumber over to the kitchen door, although I'm a little surprised when I stop and find that there's no sign of Mary. Hearing another bump, this time from Josh's room, I realize what she must be doing, so I head across the hallway and sure enough she's is sitting on our son's bed, flicking through some of his favorite books and -
I stop dead in my tracks as I see that there's a figure standing right behind her. Whoever it is, it's just like the figure I saw last night next to Josh: blurred and a little fuzzy, indistinct but definitely a large, bulky person, someone who appears to be simply watching us. Or rather, watching my wife.
“Mary,” I whisper, my heart pounding, “get over here.”
“Hey,” she replies wearily, “I was just -”
“Get over here right now,” I continue, gesturing for her to join me in the doorway. “Mary, I'm not kidding.”
“What's wrong?” she asks, getting to her feet with the figure still right behind her. “Did the hospital call? Is something -”
“It's not the hospital,” I stammer, “just get over here!”
“Steve -”
Rushing forward, I grab her arm and pull her toward the doorway. In that brief moment of panic, I lose sight of the strange figure, and when I look back across the room I find that it has completely disappeared. I look all around, but it's definitely gone.
“Steve?” Mary asks after a moment, following my gaze but clearly not seeing anything amiss. “What's going on?”
***
