by Dorien Grey
She sighed. “I was afraid of that,” she said, looking into her coffee, then hastily added, “I know it’s not your fault, and that nothing is forever, but I’ve lived here for twenty-five years now, and…”
“I understand,” Elliott said, and he felt he truly did. He then went on to tell her about one of his own rental properties that had a vacancy at a comparable rent, and that he would be pleased to have her as a tenant. He assured her he would be happy to assist if she needed help with the move itself.
“That’s very kind of you, Elliott,” she said. “Can I have a little time to think it over?”
“Certainly. I just wanted—”
There was a knock at the door, which Mrs. Reinerio apparently did not hear, since she showed no reaction to it.
“I think there’s someone at the door,” he said after a moment.
She looked at him and smiled. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said. “It’s just Aaron. I recognize the knock.”
A shiver ran from the top of his head to his toes.
“Aaron?” John had already told him, of course, but confirmation from someone with a pulse still startled him.
Her smile never faded, and there was no change in the casual tone of her voice as she said, “Aaron Stiles. He lives…lived…upstairs. He died four years ago, poor dear.”
“So you’re saying…” Elliott finally managed to say.
She put her cup down and looked at him. “Yes,” she said pleasantly, “I’m afraid you’ve bought yourself a slightly haunted house.”
Elliott took a long sip of his coffee before saying, as conversationally as he could, “Well, that is interesting. Tell me a little about Aaron.”
She sat back, laying her arms casually on the arms of her chair. “It’s an incredibly sad story, I’m afraid. He was such a sweet young man. He moved in about six years ago. He was very quiet and rather lonely, I suspect. But he was always pleasant and helpful whenever anyone needed anything, and everyone loved him.
“Aaron never talked much about his past, but from what I was able to gather, he must have had a very sad life. He mentioned once that his parents died when he was quite young and left him with the responsibility of raising a younger brother, about whom he never spoke.
“Then, about a year before he died, he found a…friend…who subsequently moved in with him. I’d never seen Aaron happier! They seemed truly devoted to one another. I think they were even planning to buy a house together. And then, one day, his friend just disappeared and never came back. Poor Aaron was devastated. Two weeks later, Aaron died. I gather he had a congenital heart condition that had plagued him all his life. But if you ask me, I think he died, quite literally, of a broken heart.”
Elliott shook his head slowly but said nothing. He felt there was nothing he could say.
“But why the knocking?” he asked finally.
She sighed again, softly. “The day after Bill—that was the friend’s name, Bill Somers—disappeared, Aaron went around to all the apartments to ask if any of us might have heard from him. None of us had, of course. But every few days he would come around again. I think he is still looking.”
Just as Elliott opened his mouth to ask another question, Mrs. Reincrio’s phone rang, and she rose to answer it.
“Ellen, dear! It’s so good to hear from you!” She paused to look at Elliott, covering the mouthpiece with one hand. “It’s my daughter from Los Angeles,” she said. “We’ve not talked in some time.”
Taking the hint, he got out of his chair. “I won’t keep you, then,” he said, outwardly casual but inwardly cursing the interruption. “Perhaps we can talk more later.”
“I’d like that, Elliott. Thank you for stopping by.” Removing her hand from the mouthpiece, she resumed her conversation with her daughter as he let himself out.
He was frustrated by the sense he had merely scratched the surface of Aaron’s story, and wanted to know more. What about this Bill—the one Aaron was still waiting for? What happened between them? Why had Bill left?
He had the sudden urge to track him down and ask him for the full story, but he dismissed the idea for several reasons, telling himself he was not a detective, that he wouldn’t know where to start looking, and that the whole thing was really none of his business. He rethought that last objection, however, and decided that having purchased a “haunted” building made it very much his business.
He did, however, fully understand now what John had said about Aaron’s sadness, and he empathized.
He considered hanging around and returning to talk to Mrs. Reinerio, but realized that was hardly practical and would undoubtedly cause her to question his reasons for the intense interest in a dead man.
As he left the building and was returning to his car, he couldn’t resist the urge to turn around and seek out the top-floor apartment window in which Steve had painted the figure Elliott had no doubt whatsoever was Aaron. He didn’t expect to see anyone, and he didn’t. It was just a window of an empty apartment.
There was no possible way Steve could have known about Aaron, yet somehow, on some level, he obviously did. John had said Steve was “perceptive,” and Elliott recalled at least two occasions while he was trying to find John’s identity that he and Steve had identical dreams, and at the same time. He hadn’t known what to make of it then, and he still didn’t.
He had never told Steve—or anyone else—about John, and didn’t know how or whether to bring up the subject of Aaron. It wasn’t for fear Steve would think he was insane—Steve had clearly stated his own belief in ghosts. Part of it was that Elliott still wasn’t completely sure he believed in ghosts—and most definitely not as most people thought of them. The vast majority of ghosts he had ever heard of seemed to be some sort of time/space anomaly, like a spectral movie clip, endlessly doing the same thing over and over and totally unaware of the living. Clearly, that wasn’t John. Ghosts, to his knowledge, did not interact with the living, let alone talk to them. On the other hand, John had never appeared to him, and their conversations were almost exclusively limited to when Elliott was asleep.
And now there was Aaron, of whom Elliott had no direct personal awareness other than the knocking, which still could have some natural explanation. The only evidence he had that there even was still an Aaron was through John.
And Steve’s painting.
And Mrs. Reinerio’s interesting but unproven theory.
So, with John in the car with him as he drove home, he remained determined he would continue to keep John’s existence to himself.
* * *
Later that night:
You’re ahead of me!
How so?
On the details about Bill. Aaron has wrapped himself in an almost impenetrable blanket of sadness, and now that I know what happened, I can understand why. But I’m having an incredibly hard time getting through to him. When I made him aware I knew about Bill, the few doors I’d been able to pry open slammed shut. I think it was just a defense mechanism on his part:
What does he have to defend himself against? He’s dead. Nothing can hurt him now.
Imagine having the worst toothache pain you’ve ever experienced. You know the dentist wants to help you, but when he reaches for that tooth…it’s the fear of even more pain. Aaron’s been in such pain for so long now…he’ll come around I’m sure, when he realizes we want to help. He just has to do it at his own pace.
Elliott was sharply aware of John’s use of the word we.
* * *
Several times in the ensuing days, Elliott was strongly tempted to return to the building to talk to Mrs. Reinerio again, but realized he really didn’t have any logical reason to do so. He spoke to Steve nearly every night, and Steve was always, if uncharacteristically, curious as to what was happening with the project.
One of the things he most appreciated about Steve was that, while he enjoyed going out and being around other people, he didn’t find it necessary to be constantly on the go. They frequently spent qui
et evenings at each other’s place watching TV or DVDs, so when Elliott suggested the Friday following his visit to Mrs. Reinerio that Steve come over for dinner, he readily agreed.
When he opened his door to Steve’s knock, he was surprised to find him carrying a large flat package wrapped in kraft paper.
“What’s this?” he asked, though he knew exactly what it was.
In the living room, Steve leaned the package against the sofa.
“Well,” he said, “we have something of a problem. I know you want the painting of the house, and that you won’t take it as a gift, so I decided to bring it over as a permanent loan for now. I really don’t have any place to display it properly, and the colors will go great in here. Is it a deal?”
Elliott shook his head. “On one condition.”
“Which is…?”
“Hold on a second, I’ll be right back.”
He left Steve standing by the sofa, looking puzzled, and went to the guest bedroom closet.
At his first gallery showing, Steve had reluctantly included a portrait of his HIV-positive brother Manny. Elliott had bought it, anonymously, with the intention of eventually returning it to its creator. He knew that, at that early point in their relationship, Steve would never accept it as a gift, and in any case, he hadn’t wanted to make it appear he was trying to buy Steve’s attention. He’d kept it in the closet so Steve wouldn’t come across it on his visits, but felt now was the time.
Bringing it into the living room, he kept the back of the canvas facing Steve then turned it around.
“What the…?” Steve managed to say.
“I’ll take the house on permanent loan if you’ll take Manny on the same terms.”
“You bought it?” Steve asked, unbelieving. “They never told me who the buyer was, but I had no idea! I thought I’d never see it again. I…Jesus!” He hurried over to throw his arms around Elliott, who managed to move the portrait to one side before he reached him. “Thank you, Ell.”
They held each other silently for a fall minute before they mutually broke the hug.
“Well,” Elliott said, “now that that’s settled, how about a drink?”
* * *
In the morning, just after they’d carried their coffee into the living room to sit side-by-side on the couch—a quick opening of the patio doors having shown it was a little too cool to sit outside—Steve made a slight gesture of his coffee cup toward the painting of the building. Elliott had immediately hung it over the credenza in the dining alcove so it could be seen from anywhere in the living area.
“I had a dream about that last night.”
Immediately fully alert, Elliott tried to keep his voice casual as he asked, “Yeah? What was it about?”
“Hard to remember details,” Steve replied, “but it had something to do with the guy in the window. I still don’t know why I put him there, but I’m glad I did. Like I said, the picture wouldn’t be complete without him.”
“I think you’re right.” Elliott paused before asking, as casually as he could, “Anything specific you remember about the dream?”
Steve took a drink of his coffee and furrowed his brows, trying to recall. “It’s really odd,” he said, “but I had the weird feeling the guy’s dead and doesn’t know it.”
Elliott deliberately took a drink before saying, “I wonder where you got that idea.”
Steve shrugged. “No clue. But remember I said something about the building having an air of sadness about it? I somehow linked that to the guy in the window. Don’t ask me why.”
He didn’t have to. While he hadn’t had a visit from John during the night, he wondered once again if John had connected with Steve—or if, more likely, Steve was subconsciously picking up things from him.
Either way, he was more than a little uncomfortable with the implications. Dealing with—even accepting the concept of—John had been hard enough, and had seriously shaken the foundations of his concepts of an orderly, logical world. To think that other people might be involved—or worse, that he was responsible for involving them—in this inexplicable new aspect of his life was truly disconcerting.
“Well,” he forced himself to say finally, “interesting as they are, dreams are just dreams.” He knew even as he said it that he was lying.
Steve gave him a smile Elliott took as being of mild amusement.
“If you say so,” he said.
* * *
As the close of escrow approached, Elliott met several times with his crew to work out strategy and logistics. A call to the sandblasting firm verified they would be able to start when they’d originally said they would.
Sure enough, the date of closing was pushed back from Tuesday to late Friday afternoon because of a minor screw-up by the title company. Saturday morning, Elliott was at the property to do some sketches and measurements. The ground-floor tenant had moved out, and Mrs. Reinerio had called to tell him she had decided to stay on and take her chances with whomever he might sell it to. It was not the time to bring up the subject of Aaron, so he didn’t.
He took the inconvenience of having to work around Mrs. Reinerio in stride, though he would have to change the work schedule to accommodate her. As soon as the Wolinskis were gone, he and his crew would concentrate on finishing that unit then move Mrs. Reinerio into it while work continued on the rest of the building. She’d agreed to make the move permanent, so they wouldn’t have to take the time and trouble to move her back into her original place. In the meantime, the crew would start with the top floor and work their way down.
Arnie had wanted to come by after the closing to check on something with the kitchen light fixtures, and Elliott agreed to meet him. Letting him into the building and unlocking the doors to both second-floor apartments so he could move about as needed, Elliott made a run to a nearby Dunkin’ Donuts to bring back coffee and rolls.
Returned, he climbed the steps to the second floor, immediately aware of John. The door to Aaron’s former apartment was ajar.
He started to enter but was stopped short by three quick, distinct raps on the door across the hall. Spinning around, he felt a shiver run through his body. He then heard three sharp raps on the partially open door from which he had just turned. Another spin around, another nothing. Below, on the first floor, he heard rapid-succession knocking on first the Wolinskis’ door, then Mrs. Reinerio’s. Three raps. No more. Exactly what he’d heard in Mrs. Reinerio’s living room.
“Damn it!” he said, far more loudly and with far more vehemence than he’d intended.
“It’s open!” Arnie called from within the apartment, and Elliott went in to find the three workmen busy in the kitchen.
Arnie grinned at him. “You don’t have to knock. This is your place.”
Elliott merely said, “Sorry.”
What the hell was going on? And what the hell had he gotten into? For an instant, he considered calling his lawyer and annulling the sale on the grounds that the Wolinskis had not given him all the pertinent information about the building. After a few deep breaths, he realized it was questionable whether a seller would have to report a haunting as a defect in the property. Furthermore, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been aware of it from the beginning.
He also suspected the outburst he had just witnessed was just that—an outburst. But what had brought it on? Why now? And how many more incidents might there be?
Most disturbing to contemplate, though, was what else Aaron might be capable of other than rapping.
He tried to “summon” John. It had never worked before, and it didn’t work now. While John was clearly nearby, his appearances were always at his own instigation, not Elliott’s. With only two exceptions, every communication between them had been while Elliott was asleep, and there had never been even the slightest physical manifestation of his existence. But with Aaron…
Mrs. Reinerio apparently no longer responded to the rapping, and Elliott suspected the Wolinskis didn’t either. They had all heard them often enough, as
Mrs. Reinerio had indicated, that they simply ignored them. But even if the Wolinskis had deliberately offered a useful, if false, explanation for the knocking—the alleged intruders—Elliott knew he couldn’t and wouldn’t sell a building under such bizarre circumstances.
However reluctantly, he knew the only way he was going to get around Aaron’s problem was to somehow help him resolve it, as he had done with John.
* * *
Though he had arranged to meet Steve for dinner, Elliott wanted to get to bed early, hoping John would show up to give him some idea what was going on.
That plan was shuffled to the side when, after dinner, Steve suggested they stop and rent a couple of gay porn videos—strictly, he explained, for the educational value the intro of every such video states is contained therein. Always willing to expand his breadth of knowledge, Elliott readily agreed, and as a result it was past 2:00 a.m. before they finally got to sleep.
An enjoyable evening, I take it?
Very. I needed it after today. What the hell was Aaron doing?
I’m not sure even he knows. He’s still far more emotion than reason. As far as today goes, from what I can gather his rational side is aware something is going on, but he’s too caught up in his whirlpool of sadness to be able to do much about it.
But why the knocking?
Like a lot of…people like me…he hasn’t figured things out yet, time being among them. Time’s different for us than it is for you—it’s not so rigid. I think as far as Aaron is concerned it’s still four years ago. His mind is in a today-tomorrow-yesterday world. I think he knocks on his neighbors’ doors because he doesn’t know they aren’t there anymore, and hopes they might have heard from Bill.
Now that he’s beginning to pull himself a little bit out of the whirlpool, he still doesn’t know what’s happening, exactly, just that things have changed and I think that’s only increasing his sense of panic. It’s like looking for a loved one in a burning theater—he’s frantic.
What can we… His own use of the word we and its implications wasn’t lost on him…do about it?
