by Brett McBean
It can’t be, it can’t be, it can’t be…
He had to have imagined it – it simply wasn’t possible.
As the elevator continued to shake like some ride at a fun fair, Jackson came to the conclusion that what he had just seen was an illusion. Perhaps he had invented the whole thing – there was no body on the ground, no killer coming to get him.
Just my mind playing tricks, that’s all.
But what wasn’t an illusion was the elevator. It was having a major fit and Jackson knew he had to get the hell off of it before he got seriously injured.
Jackson wiped his eyes and stood up. He almost slipped, but managed to hold his footing.
There’s nothing out there, he thought. There’s no killer, no body; it’s just my imagination.
He readied himself, opened his eyes and looked out.
He gasped.
She was standing there, looking right at him. All alone. There were no knife wounds, no blood on her. She looked as beautiful as ever – soft, white skin, flowing raven hair. And those eyes…angelic, knowing eyes.
“Gloria,” Jackson muttered.
He hadn’t thought about her for years. Had completely pushed her out of his mind. Last time he had seen her was five years ago, yet she looked just as he remembered her. She hadn’t changed a bit.
“What are you doing here?” Jackson said.
“Your life has been a lie,” she said, her voice tinged with sadness. “And I’ve found out the truth, Jackson…”
The elevator was suddenly plunged into darkness. Jackson shrieked.
Sparks started raining down on him. The elevator continued to dance and there was a frightening metallic popping sound, followed by a downward shift.
Jackson hurried towards the corridor, but when he reached the open doors, he was thrown to the floor by an invisible wall that felt like gelatinous water.
It wasn’t going to let him escape.
“Help me,” he called out to Gloria.
“You were born in Belford, that much was true, but everything else you told me was bullshit. Your dad was a drunk and your mom a cold, uncaring woman. They didn’t run a pet store, but your dad did work in a funeral parlor while your mom brought home strangers passing through…”
“That’s not true,” Jackson cried. “My mom loved me…” Jackson slipped over as he attempted to stand. Gloria just stood and watched and continued talking.
“Your mom almost died giving birth to you, and she never forgave you for that. When you were a baby she used to leave you in your cot in her bedroom while she fucked the strangers. Your brother used to come home and catch her and take you away. He used to bring you into his room and shut the door and cry. Said that all you did was stare at the wall and rock back and forth. He loved you, Jackson, but he was worried about you. The only comfort you seemed to get was from a stray cat. But you killed it when you were five. Your mother found you with it, its neck broken…”
“You’re lying!”
“Your brother left home when he was sixteen, couldn’t take the abuse any longer. You never heard from him again. You remained at home with your drunken father and slut of a mother…”
“Bitch! I knew there was a reason why I left you.” Jackson again tried to stand, but was only rocketed backwards by the shuddering elevator.
“You grew into a very distant child. You had no friends at school and were teased and beaten up regularly…”
“I had a lot of friends!”
“Girls weren’t interested in you and you withdrew into yourself even more as you got older. You started setting fire to things when you were fifteen and your parents sent you to a reform school in Upstate New York…”
“No!”
“And they told you never to come back. You left the reform school when you were eighteen, and moved to New York where you did get a job in a meatpacking plant, however, you never stayed with your brother and you never had any friends...”
“For Christ’s sake help me, Gloria! Help me out of this elevator!”
“You were in and out of detention centers, even went to jail a few times. You were living a sad life of petty crime in some dump in Queens when you met me…”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You had me fooled for awhile, made me fall in love with you and think you were something you weren’t. Told me a lot of bullshit stories about your bullshit life, but I found out the truth. I know the truth about your Uncle Walter, too. Why he really bought you those gifts…”
“It’s going to crash! Help me! I’ll die if you don’t help me!”
“But I didn’t think you were capable of raping someone, Jackson. Christ, look at you. I bet you won’t even remember this in a few years. I bet you wipe it all away and make up some fantasy like you always have. Well I hope you stay behind those bars and are never allowed out. Because I’d hate to think what might happen if you are released. Your weakness will be your downfall, remember that. Goodbye Jackson.”
Lying in the darkness of the elevator, sparks raining down, unable to escape, Jackson watched as Gloria began to fade. “Gloria, wait…” But she was gone.
He was left with nothing but his buried memories and a broken elevator.
There was an earsplitting snap! as the cable finally broke.
Only the night watchman was awake to witness the destruction as the elevator plummeted six-floors to its final resting-place in the lobby.
And the truth shall set you free…
* * *
He eventually got a good job in advertising and soon after he and Gloria moved in together, into an apartment in Manhattan. They lived not too far from his brother and his wife and they all went out to bars, watching his brother play in his band whenever they performed, listening to his wife sing.
It was a great life.
Only it slowly got worse. He was still in love with Gloria, yet she became more distant, coming home late and flirting with men in the bars.
He told her to leave (he was paying the rent, after all), when he found her in bed with some guy, and even though she begged him to give her a second chance, he refused and she left.
He remained in the apartment, even after the building started going to the dumps, and only had one-night stands. He didn’t want to get into a relationship again and be hurt.
Five years passed and he all but forgot about Gloria.
He fell in love with the single life, going out every night searching for women.
It was what he was meant to do. He came to realise that.
And in those quiet nights when he sat alone in his apartment and reflected on his life, he knew that when it came time to meet his maker and his journey flashed before him as they say it does right before you die, he would see a good life, one of purpose and joy and happiness.
The truth.
It was what his guardian angel had always promised.
NOTES:
One of a handful of stories set in New York City, and one of many to deal with serial killers – both topics which fascinate me to no end. My twist on the ‘seeing your life flashing before your eyes’ notion. Just a side note – this story mentions the fictional small town of Belford. Even though it rates only as a passing mention here, the town will be featured in future stories, namely the coming-of-age novel I’m working on at the moment.
A QUESTION OF BELIEF
The man was standing at the edge of the cliff, gently swaying back and forth, gazing down at the lapping sea.
At first glance the Reverend thought the man was merely enjoying the resplendent view. After all, that was why Reverend Bill Blight was up here. He was taking his regular afternoon walk along the cliffs, enjoying the marvel of the ocean.
But as he neared the man, the Reverend couldn’t help but notice his tattered clothes. They flapped and danced in the wind, shredded bits of cloth hanging on by the smallest of threads.
He knew this man wasn’t sightseeing – far from it.
The R
everend felt his heart quicken. To see an unfortunate man like this, obviously fed up with the world, filled him with sorrow. He had dealt with many discouraged souls over his forty years of ministry and he had come to discern the signs of self-destruction.
It was his duty to help this man; it was what his life’s work was all about.
The Reverend started deliberately towards the man, and as he neared, caught a whiff of a pungent stench. It smelled of fish that had gone foul, coupled with garbage that had been left out in the sun for too long. The Reverend held his breath, but tried to maintain a pleasant face. He could hear the sea breaking against the shoreline, and the gentle crowing of birds as he stepped up to the stranger.
“Hello, my son,” the Reverend said, letting his breath out. “Beautiful view, isn’t it? Such a glorious day.”
The Reverend turned and looked at the man. He gasped, short and restrained. He had not been prepared for such a sight. The man’s face was extremely pale and there were small chunks in his cheeks and forehead where flesh was missing. What oozed from the wounds was clear and runny.
And the man’s eyes were glassy. The Reverend saw no life in those eyes, no sign of any recognition of his surroundings.
This man is extremely sick.
“It’s okay,” he said to the man, steadying his voice. “I can help you.”
The stranger continued to rock back and forth, gazing out at the sea.
“What’s your name?”
There was no response.
“My name is Reverend Bill Blight. Can you tell me your name?”
The stranger lifted his arm and pointed towards the ocean. He opened his mouth and emitted a low cry.
“Yes, that’s the ocean,” the Reverend said.
The man groaned again, this time with more determination.
The Reverend nodded and smiled.
Maybe he is mentally handicapped, and has wandered from the hospital, he thought. Although he didn’t know of any mental hospitals close by.
“Come, my house is near. You can come back with me and have something to eat.”
The Reverend took a gentle hold of the man’s arm and felt that his shirt was damp. It wasn’t overly wet; it felt as if the winds had blown his once drenched clothes almost completely dry. He started to lead him away from the edge of the bluff.
But the man broke free and began to grunt tenaciously, standing again by the edge of the cliff.
Poor man seems to have a deep affection for the ocean, the Reverend thought. He smiled and gripped the man’s arm once again.
“Come now. I can take you back here later, after you have had something to eat and get cleaned up.”
This time the man went with the Reverend, although he continued to whimper as he was led from the ocean.
The Reverend’s cottage was a comfortable ten-minute walk from the ocean. The tall, wispy grass that covered the cliffs ran all the way back to his house, and the dark sandy soil allowed for very little lush foliage. To the back of his cottage was a collection of small hills. They rose out of the ground like clumps of green clay. It was his own little nest, not too far from town or the church, and up to a few years ago he had felt safe, content living there.
Now the house contained too many unhappy memories.
The late afternoon sun was beginning to soak into the horizon when they arrived at the cottage. He led the man inside and sat him down at the kitchen table.
“We’d better tend to those wounds, my friend.” The Reverend wandered into the bathroom and grabbed a tube of antiseptic cream, some Band-Aids, and a bag of cotton balls. He wandered back to the man and placed the items on the old wooden table.
“This might sting a little, okay?”
The man stared vacantly at the door.
The Reverend dabbed some antiseptic onto the cotton ball and gently patted the cream into the gory wounds. The man didn’t flinch or shriek out in pain. Amazed, the Reverend continued to clean and dress the wounds.
Next he filled the bathtub with steaming water. He had to help undress the man then he threw the dank clothes into the bin. He helped the man into the bath, gave him a bar of soap, then closed the bathroom door and left him to his privacy. In his bedroom he laid some old work clothes out, then strolled into the small lounge room where he took out the phone book and looked up nearby hospitals. There were only two, the closest one being an hour's drive.
He phoned the first hospital. They had no reports of any patients missing.
He called the second hospital, and was told the same thing.
He thanked them and hung up, puzzled. Who was this man?
Maybe he had come from a private home. If that were the case, it would be near impossible for him to find out where the stranger came from. He had checked the pockets of the man’s clothes before throwing them away and had found no identification.
All he had found was a small, ragged diary lodged in the back pocket of the man’s trousers. Its pages were damp so he had left it to dry on a rack in the lounge.
The Reverend left the phone and headed to the bathroom.
He knocked on the door, then entered.
He frowned. The man was sitting in exactly the same position as he had left him – knees up and clutching at the bar of soap.
He shook his head and grinned. “You look about as dirty as when I found you.”
Emitting a small sigh, the Reverend sauntered up to the bathtub and took the soap from the man’s grasp.
* * *
When the Reverend walked into the kitchen, the man was standing by the window, gazing out at the darkening sky. He was clothed in the Reverend’s old work garments, and smelling a lot cleaner. However he looked quite hideous all bandaged up.
The Reverend smiled and walked over. “I will take you back to the beach tomorrow, okay?” He took the man’s arm and was met with resistance. “Come on, you can’t see much now. I promise I will take you. We can spend all day there.”
He led the man to the table. He remained seated while the Reverend prepared the dinner.
“How does beef stew sound?” the Reverend called over his shoulder. He knew full well he wouldn’t get a response, but he didn’t care. He quite liked having the company, even if the company was a simpleton. He turned back around and started cutting the meat.
An hour later, the Reverend took a large plateful of mushy stew over to the man and placed it down in front of him.
“There ya go,” he said with a nod. “Good and hearty.”
The man sat staring at the heap in front of him. He didn’t seem to have any idea as to what to do.
The Reverend took the spoon and shoved it into the man’s hand. He then demonstrated the motion of putting spoon to mouth. Like an artless child, the man copied the Reverend and mouthed a spoonful of the stew.
“That’s the way,” the Reverend said.
But the moment the man tasted the stew, he jerked forward and spat it out.
The Reverend jumped back to avoid the mess. Groaning, the man stood up, toppling the chair over, and dashed over to the bench.
“What are you doing? What’s wrong?”
The Reverend was frightened. Frightened he may have given the man something he was allergic to. Whatever it was it seemed he needed a drink of water.
But that wasn’t what the man went for.
Instead of going to the sink, he snatched up the lump of raw beef that was left over from the stew and rammed it into his mouth.
“Good grief,” the Reverend gasped.
The man tore into the meat like a voracious animal. Blood trickled down his face and chest.
Sickened at what he was witnessing, the Reverend rushed up to the man and grabbed the meat off him.
“Stop that,” he ordered.
The man, his face smeared with orange gore, lowered his eyes.
He suddenly seemed ashamed of his behavior. The Reverend threw the chewed bit of meat into the bin and washed his hands in the sink. He then took the man into the bathroom
and washed his face and hands with soap.
Afterwards he set him in his bedroom and closed the door.
He figured the man could do with a good rest.
* * *
The night was beginning to cool. The Reverend was sitting by the open fire, reading the man’s diary. The heat from the fire had dried its soggy pages, though a lot of the diary was unreadable.
The dampness had smudged some of the writing. Finding the diary had come as quite a surprise to the Reverend since it meant the stranger wasn’t mentally handicapped, like he’d initially thought. He had read most of the contents, those that were still readable, and had found nothing much of interest.
He turned one of its crinkled pages and found it barely readable.
So he turned again.
May 18, 19 –
This is my second nite abord the “Coup L’Aire.” The rest of the fellas, which numbers around 35 seem quit nice. The captain is bit rough, but arn’t they all?
My boss, French they call him, is a alright guy. I don’ know why they call him French, since he don’t have a accent.
This is gonna be a short entry tonite, as I am dog tired. Tomorow we stop at Hati (I think thats how its spelt) to colect boxes of suger. That should be fun, as I hear from the guys that there are always a lot of naked woman running around and that they are into spells and vodoo and stuff.
I spent the entire day fixin machines and checkin the ropes. It aint glamorus work, but it pays alright.
The Reverend smiled. He would have to teach the man spelling and grammar in the coming days.
He turned the page.
May 20, 19 –
Boy, what a day and nite we all had! There is alot to tell so I’ll try and be as quick about it. I don’t wanna spend all day writing. I’ll likley to be fired if I did that.
So yesterday we arived at Hati. We all hopped off at a placed called Port-au-Prince and were told where to go to get the boxes of suger. Well, we spend all day carting boxes and boxes of suger onto the ship – and let me say that suger is damn heavy – until they were all on bord. Well, right off the bat I thought this place spooky. All these black folk walking around wearing strange clothes, speaking this funny languige. I’m no racist or anything, but that was the way I felt.
