Perfect Trust argi-3

by M. R. Sellars

  The wind dies for a moment, and I hear something that sounds like footsteps. My heart thuds in my chest as I jump, startled, and I lose my balance. My knee brushes against the rough asphalt, and I literally feel the tear happen.

  I look around and see nothing. I must have imagined the noise. Great! So now I’m hearing things. I take a moment to inspect my knee. Dammit! This was my last good pair of hose. Well, at least I’m not bleeding, but there’s no saving the stockings. They’re shot, and I’m not going back out to the store tonight. That settles it for sure. Slacks tomorrow.

  I send my hand in search of the keys once more. I can get a better angle now because I don’t have to worry about ruining my pantyhose anymore. My fingers touch something and I hear a jingle. I stretch my arm a bit farther and slowly move my hand from side to side.

  My fingers touch something cold, and I hook them around the keys, then I pull them out. Standing up I lock the car door and close it. God, it’s been a long day. I just want to get inside, kick off my shoes, look at the television for a while, and then go to bed. I look at my watch-6:45. Traffic was horrible. But then, it always is around the holidays.

  My heels make rapid, purposeful clicks against the surface of the parking lot. I hurry through the shadows and glance quickly around in the few small swaths of light. I’m still a bit jumpy. I don’t know why because the noise was all in my imagination. Wasn’t it? I glance about once again, and I twist the keyring in my hand, allowing the points of the keys to protrude between my fingers as I clench my fist.

  It is way too dark out here. And with the parking lot on the backside of the building it is too isolated. I don’t like it. Damn superintendent still hasn’t done anything about the lights. Over half of them have been burned out for six months now. During the summer it wasn’t that bad, but it gets dark earlier now. I’d better call and complain again tomorrow.

  Hmmph, like it will do any good. It hasn’t yet.

  Oh well, just another hundred feet and I’ll be inside. Out of the dark and into the warmth. This next part is the worst. All of the lights are burned out here. And then there’s the overgrown evergreen bushes and the angry shadows they make. I aim myself at the distant door and hasten my steps.

  Dammit, Heather! Get a grip girl. You’ll be inside soon. You’re getting yourself worked up over nothing. This is a safe neighborhood. Chill out.

  Seventy-five feet left to go. Why is my heart racing? I’m not usually this skittish. The clicking sound below me is coming faster now.

  What was that?!

  This time I KNOW there was a noise!

  I stop dead in my tracks. The footsteps behind me make a soft thud, halting just enough out of time with my own to strike fear into the pit of my stomach. Stupid! Stupid, Heather! What the hell did you stop for?! If someone is coming after you what are you going to do? Just stand here and wait for him?

  The footsteps behind me begin again, and I glance over my shoulder only to see a shadowy figure moving toward me.

  Oh my God! This can’t really be happening!

  I begin to sprint without any thought. I instantly understand how those women in the horror flicks manage to run in high heels. They’re just too scared to know better, that’s all.

  My shoes are click-clacking rapidly against the pavement now; my heart is firmly entrenched in my throat, blocking all attempts to scream. Panic has stolen my breath. I’ve never been this frightened before.

  Fifty feet, I’m almost there. I can hear him back there, running, getting closer. He’s not even trying to conceal himself any longer.

  I can feel hot breath against my neck.

  I can smell stale cigarette smoke and bad breath.

  The sour reek of B.O.

  Something hits me hard in the side, and I stumble into the tendril-like branches of the evergreen. What little wind I have left is forced from my lungs, and I struggle to disentangle myself.

  He grabs me and I flail wildly. I fall into him and we both crash to the ground with me on top. He is clawing at me, trying to maintain his hold. I kick and twist away, slipping out of my blazer, and crawl quickly as I try to stand. Scrabbling across the sidewalk I fight to regain my footing.

  I open my mouth to scream, but nothing more than a choked whimper comes out.

  A hand wraps around my ankle, and I kick hard with my other foot. I twist onto my back and kick again, aiming my heel for the ski mask staring back at me. I miss and my shoe goes flying.

  I roll frantically and manage to pull away again then drag myself upward. I start to run but trip over my remaining shoe. The time it takes me to kick it off and begin to run again is all the time he needs.

  My blouse has become untucked in the struggle, and it is riding up as I try to regain my balance. Something cold presses hard against the bare skin at my waistline.

  I hear a quick electric snap, like a light bulb blowing out.

  My teeth clench hard and I freeze in place, every nerve scrambled into a tangled rat’s nest of jittery disorientation. I shudder for a moment and fall to the ground. There’s a metallic tang in my mouth that is slowly replaced by the salty taste of my own blood from where I’ve bitten my tongue. Or at least I hope that is all it is.

  Fear still grips me through the disorientation, but my voice is nowhere to be found. All I seem to be able to do is twitch.

  I hear him moving nearby.

  I see the shadow over me.

  Once again I can smell the B.O. and stale cigarettes as he looms closer.

  I hear panting breaths and a hoarse, almost awestruck whisper intermixed, “Perfect…She’s almost perfect.”

  I can feel the keys in my hand, their metal points still poking between my fingers, as my fist remains clenched. The shadow moves in closer, and I summon everything I have to flail at it with the only weapon I have left. But my arm doesn’t move.

  I’m still twitching uncontrollably. He forces my mouth open and pours something onto my tongue. It’s bitter and I gag.

  As I sputter, the message I had earlier sent to my arm finds its way down a detour of nerves, and the handful of keys slings upward in a flaccid arc, glancing harmlessly against my attacker.

  Still, he yelps with surprise and rocks back away from me.

  Hard points press against my flesh once again, and I hear the crackling hum. The last thing I feel is my back arch as electricity courses through me, and the lights dim quickly to black.

  *****

  I really should have tried a different tactic to break the connection the moment Debbie Schaeffer pushed me. But in all honesty, I was far too shocked to even think, much less act.

  Throughout the investigations I’d been involved in over the past two years, I had channeled some terribly horrific things. In doing so, I had been guided-sometimes even led around by the nose to an extent-by the spirits of those I was trying to help. I had pretty much come to expect this kind of treatment from the other side.

  However, this was the first time I could recall ever having been outright pushed around, for lack of a better description, by a vengeful ghost. It was a wholly new experience for me and something I wasn’t enjoying in the least. But then, I knew better than to do this without someone to back me up, so I had no one to blame but myself. And trust me, I was already pointing all four fingers and a thumb right where they belonged.

  As I had told Heather Burke before this all began, I wasn’t entirely certain that I wanted to see what she had to show me. But that no longer mattered because I wasn’t seeing it; I was living it. What was worse, I knew that the piece of her life I’d shared thus far was only a prologue to the real horror show.

  The only saving grace was the fact that on the physical plane, Heather was sitting right in front of me. Alive, uninjured, and for the most part, well-very well, in fact, for someone who had been through what she had. This meant that at least I wasn’t running the risk of following her into death.

  Of course, until now, she couldn’t actually remember any of the events that
had transpired in any detail. So the question was: Just how well was she going to be after this was all over?

  Or perhaps the real question should be: Just how well were we going to be after this was all over?

  *****

  I awake.

  I don’t know where I am.

  My head hurts and so does my side.

  I’m too afraid to move.

  I try to move.

  I can’t.

  It’s like I’m just too tired to do anything.

  I feel as though I am sitting.

  But where?

  My hair feels funny.

  Like I’m wearing a stocking cap or something.

  My scalp is hot and it itches, but I’m too tired to scratch it. I try to ignore it.

  Where am I?

  I try to remember.

  Someone was chasing me, yeah.

  Did he catch me? Did I get away?

  I’m supposed to be afraid now, right? I think I am. I’m just so tired that I don’t care.

  I take the plunge and slowly open my eyes.

  I think I’m staring at my lap.

  The light is subdued, dimmed, and almost ethereal.

  It’s just a bit on the cold side.

  I blink slowly, and my eyes begin to adjust, then my lap comes into focus.

  Hmmmph, interesting. I don’t remember owning a red garter belt and red stockings.

  The fog in my brain parts a bit more.

  Well no wonder I’m cold, I’m half naked!

  A rough hand comes out of nowhere and cups my chin. I would scream but I’m just too tired. Still, terror rips through me as my head is tilted back.

  Tired or not, now I am definitely afraid.

  I manage to whimper.

  I smell B.O. and cigarettes.

  Smoke rolls cloudlike in front of my face and I gag on it.

  I hear a familiar voice; rough but filled with a bizarre reverence, “Almost perfect…”

  My head is tilted even farther back. My hair feels so very odd. My scalp feels tight and constricted, but the hair against my shoulders feels fluffy and teased.

  Bizarre.

  I must be tripping on something…It’s almost like when I did acid in college…but…not exactly the same.

  At least I enjoyed myself then.

  That’s it, he must have drugged me.

  I stare upward, afraid.

  All I can make out is a shadow.

  The voice comes again, “Almost her…”

  I see a hand come toward my face. I try to shut my eyes, afraid that I am about to be struck. I feel his fingers on my eyelid, and he pries my left eye open and holds it wide. I still cannot see him. I watch in horror as his other hand comes directly at my eyeball.

  I whimper and try to struggle, but he holds tight.

  My eye waters against the foreign object that has been inserted, and now he does the same to my right eye. My vision is so completely blurred now that I cannot even make out complete shapes. Only shadow and light.

  I whimper again and feel a hot tear roll down my cheek.

  “Stop crying!” the voice demands, the former reverent tone disappearing. “Why do all of you have to cry?!”

  All of you?

  I wonder about that.

  I must not be the only one here.

  Are they just as afraid as me?

  The hand grabs my face once again, and it feels as though it is crushing my jaw. He shakes my head, pressing his fingers and thumb hard into my cheeks.

  “Stop crying, dammit! You aren’t HER! You don’t have the right to cry! Stop it!”

  I whimper and feel more tears begin to flow. I can’t stop. I’m so afraid.

  He releases his grip, and I see the shadow seem to turn. Then it suddenly spins back to me, and I feel his palm slap me hard across my face.

  My head is wrenched to the side, and the hot sting on my cheek spreads outward. I just cry harder.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” he screams. “Now I have to fix your makeup!”

  The shadow moves away but returns quickly. Something hard stabs into my side, and my teeth chatter as I stiffen and vibrate with the electric shock.

  The last thing I hear is the voice screaming, “YOU AREN’T HER!”

  *****

  I was swimming toward the surface again, laboring to break free of the current that had swept me so deeply into Heather Burke’s recent past. The darkness around me was thinning; changing in hue from black, to indigo, to blue, then charcoal grey. I felt myself break through, and the colors of the room bloomed around me.

  I felt a wave of relief that was followed by a tsunami of confusion. I knew that I should be staring directly into the eyes of a petite blonde who was positioned across from me.

  Instead, I was staring directly into the eyes of a long-haired man who was sporting a greying goatee and a blank expression. The problem was, I wasn’t looking into a mirror.

  I wondered if Heather Burke was now occupying the body sitting across from me, looking at herself and wondering what was happening. Or were both our psyches crammed tightly into her body, and mine was now nothing more than an empty shell?

  Neither of those options was particularly comforting at the moment.

  “So what happens now?” Detective McLaughlin queried Ben in a low voice.

  I could tell she was whispering, but to me, her words rang out clear and strong through the void. I called out to the two of them to help me, but my plea fell on deaf ears.

  If I could hear them so clearly, why couldn’t they hear me?

  I tried calling again, louder this time, but realized quickly that even I could not hear my own voice. I had no choice but to simply listen.

  “Guess it all depends.” I could sense the shrug in my friend’s voice when he answered her.

  “On what?”

  “On what he sees.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I dunno. I’ve watched ‘im do this maybe half a dozen times. Either he sits there starin’ for a minute then just snaps out of it, or he starts floppin’ around and screamin’ like a banshee.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “‘Cause of what he sees, I guess.”

  “I don’t understand,” she sounded puzzled, “I thought he was going to hypnotize her.”

  “He did,” Ben grunted. “Look at ‘er.”

  “But shouldn’t they be talking or something?”

  “That’s not ‘zactly how he does it.”

  “How exactly does he do it then?”

  “I dunno. Hocus-pocus Twilight Zone shit, ya’know. He’s the Witch, not me.”

  “So what’s he see that would make him start screaming?”

  “Fuck, I dunno. I don’t really wanna either. Do you?”

  I didn’t hear Charlee’s answer, but I knew my own, and right now it was “No.”

  *****

  I’m drifting in a semi-conscious haze.

  I remember flashing lights.

  Bright. Blinding.

  Over and over.

  Darkness.

  Flash!

  Darkness.

  Flash!

  And the sound of shuffling.

  I remember being moved.

  At least I think I do.

  I’m no longer cold, but I’m terribly uncomfortable.

  I feel as though I’m still seated, but my hip is aching, and I can feel my own knuckles pressing hard against my cheek. My arm tingles as if it has gone to sleep.

  My back is starting to hurt.

  My hair still feels incredibly bizarre.

  I start to move but then I remember.

  I’m afraid to open my eyes.

  I know he is close… I can hear him.

  I can smell him.

  I gag on the stench

  I open one eye and find that the blur is no longer as bad as it had been earlier. Still, I can feel something in my eyes and they are sore. Itching.

  I’m in different clothing now.

/>   It looks like it might be a party dress. All I know is that it is shiny and red and frilly, and there is a lot of it gathered around me. My right leg is draped over the arm of the chair. My left leg feels like it is being stretched and pulled out of its socket in the opposite direction. From the way that my feet feel, I guess that they are crammed into a pair of high heels that are about a half-size too small.

  My side begins to cramp up and I whimper.

  He doesn’t hear me.

  He is making far too much noise.

  I can hear him panting.

  I feel him close.

  A shadow moves in front of me, and in the dim light I can see that he is nude from the waist down.

  His hand is pistoning back and forth at his crotch, and I can hear him mutter, “So close… Almost perfect…”

  A lit cigarette smokes in his free hand as the other pumps faster between his legs. I concentrate on the glowing coal, not wanting to witness his self-stimulation. I watch him raise the cigarette to take a puff and notice that it is positioned between his middle fingers.

  Curious.

  I’ve never seen anyone hold a cigarette like that before.

  I try to follow his hand, but my head feels heavy, and I cannot move.

  He moves closer, standing between my legs.

  I want to scream.

  He starts grunting as something warm and wet splatters on me. I’m afraid I know what it is, and I feel sick.

  The scream escapes as a gurgle.

  My brain overloads on the fear and disgust.

  I close my eyes and pray.

  He keeps panting and muttering, “Oh sweet Jesus, she’s so close… She’s almost HER.”

  *****

  “Did you see that?” Charlee McLaughlin’s voice echoes past me in a distorted roar.

  “See what?” Ben’s voice rumbles behind.

  “They flinched.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “No, I mean like both at the same time.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well does that mean something?”

  “You’re askin’ the wrong guy, Chuck.”

  “It’s been almost five solid minutes.” Her voice continued to echo out of phase. “Should we try to wake them up or something?”