The Woman Hidden

by Lucas Mattias

“I do know you,” The sheriff repeated, placing himself in front of Jason. “And I know you enough. Three years ago, I thought you wouldn’t last two months and you’ve endured the past three years that succeeded that. You’ve kept your remorse inside for so long, Jason, it needs to come out by hook or by crook, I just fear the way it might do it. Michelle? You know what you gotta do because you’ve done it before: let this story die.”

  “Do you believe in spirits, Aubry?”

  The sheriff, who seemed prone to continue his lecture, held back for a while and stared at him, just to make sure Jason was serious about that. He then removed the keys of his pickup truck and headed to its door.

  “No need for breathalyzer, Aubry.” Jason noticed his voice rising, so he put on an effort to make it neutral and pacific again. “I… I didn’t drink. I woke up this morning and I swear I saw her, Aubry. I swear.”

  “You know she’s dead, son. You, better than anyone, know that. And I’m sorry, but it has been three years already.”

  Jason shook his head, trying to believe that false truth.

  “She could…”

  “Jason, she couldn’t! Michelle died; after all that happened, not even a miracle from God himself would have saved her, Jason! You saw her die. You watched her leave. You buried her.”

  Even though Jason had overcome that trauma long ago, the words felt like heavy and cold slaps against his face. He raised his eyes and, looking up, watched the heavy grey clouds above them move quickly, dragged by the wind and loaded with sorrow.

  “Maybe this old box of yours decided to bring all that pain back to the surface once more.”

  Old box. Jason knew his head was not an old box.

  “Pain, Aubry?”

  The sheriff groaned, as if yelling at a stubborn and partially deaf child.

  “Regret, Jason. Guilty. Repentance.”

  “I don’t…”

  “Jason. We’re between us, here. I know what happened as well as you do. Or Marco. I told you long ago to get rid of it all and start fresh somewhere else. These mountains withhold grief, Flyce, and yours have been bottled-up inside those beautiful glass walls for too long now.”

  A vigorous hurtful airstream hit them both, bringing with it a frugal silence. Jason couldn’t say he wanted to believe Aubry’s therapeutic speech, but he was willing to believe the man knew what he was saying. It didn’t matter, tough. He prepared to continue that conversation about Michelle’s ghost when the Sheriff’s radio came alive.

  “Oh,” He cursed, huddling inside his official jacket. “This uphill case is getting to my nerves. Can I trust leaving you here or do I need to take you to the precinct?”

  Jason briefly lifted the towel to check on his bruise, not bleeding anymore. He nodded, the head still pounding from those numerous thoughts and pain that was not only psychological, but physical, too.

  “Search for God, Flyce. He has your answers.”

  God. The image of that charred demon came once more to Jason’s mind and he felt and uncomfortable shiver run through his body, shaking the idea off as soon as the sheriff left. He would write Marge a check, covering the damage he had caused, then he would go back to his grocery shopping and to his own home before rainfall. He didn’t want to spend another second thinking about the ghosts and monsters that attacked him at the store, nor would he think about Michelle for, at least, a few hours until he was safe at the comfort of his cabin. He feared finding another manifestation of hers at some point of the road and getting into one of those Hollywood car crashes, but he knew that would be too ironic and comfortable for him. He did not deserve an ironic death. He deserved a painful and meaningless death, one of those stupid deaths you always hear about and can never believe in the amount of imbecility it took. No, he would not die in a divine irony just to close a cycle that didn’t even exist. That was real life, not another one of his stories.

  He threw the cigarette butt through the window and inhaled deeply. Nicotine had calmed his nerves, at least, providing him with a calm trip, although disturbed, back home. Regardless of the coat he had on, his arms were still sore from the superficial wounds made by the glass he had destroyed during the attack, but at least he was safe and in clear mind. Well, safe he knew surely to be.

  Jason got out of the car and grabbed his shopping bags, feeling as if dragging himself back to the chalet. Everything was reasonably calm and the snowflakes were already swirling down, offering that mixed feeling of pleasure and pain when touching the man’s skin. It was getting colder and he really needed the comfort of his bed.

  There wasn’t any traces of Michelle’s voice or presence and Jason vehemently hoped it would stay that way.

  Inside the house, it was even calmer. Clarice should be at the shower, something he suspected when he heard the distant working sound of the heater, coming from the basement. He knew he had to fix that noise at some point, but if everything was working fine, why bother?

  Jason left his keys on the coffee table from the living room, beside his shopped goods, and took a deep warm breath. From the distance, on the kitchen’s counter, he saw a half-covered pie and asked himself if that could be another deed from Clarice, although he understood most of the ingredients needed for that he had just brought with him. He needed a coffee, perhaps a tea.

  Where was Marco? Had he already returned home?

  Around, there were no signs to his being there. Jason was too tired to climb up the stairs, but at the same time he was begging for his bed or for a long bath, something to pull himself together and allow him to think through his own beliefs and paradigms.

  Michelle wasn’t real. In the past, sure, but not anymore. She was dead and he needed to keep that fresh in mind, he needed to guarantee himself it was not possible for him to be seeing her. A visit to her grave could help, perhaps it was all just some stress caused by Clarice’s arrival.

  That could be it. The woman’s presence and all those few memories she carried with her could’ve been the trigger to all those heavy remembrances, all those delusions.

  What if it was about…

  “Jason.”

  The same cold shivery from before climbed up his spine, spreading to his back and shoulders until it rose the hair in his nape.

  You are not real. This is not real, he repeated to himself, while keeping his eyes shut and trying to breath deeply. There wouldn’t be another fit. It was a trick manufactured by his brain.

  “Yes, I am real.”

  As if she could read his mind. He was almost reaching for the stairs when he saw her.

  Michelle was right over there, again, but now she seemed different in some ways. She wasn’t dead or wearing the long white dress from before, the same she’d been buried with. She was in a blue robe and that same rob brought Jason memories he didn’t want to resume. Memories from a night distant in the past, a night that brought deep painful wounds to their lives.

  He stood frozen at the foot of the stair, carefully observing his deceased wife.

  His brain wanted to tell him it was not real, but his eyes and heart showed him another direction. She was there, staring right back at him with her gentle smile made by large and curved lips, that beautiful fleshy smile that took him his focus so many times, receiving long kisses as a reply. Her curly hair fell over her face and shoulders, recreating that same old frame that had been his inspiration for many stories, for many nights. Her black skin reflected the lights of the house, also reflecting that long-lost desire of touching her. Desired that was later replaced by regret and to which Jason had, a long time ago, said his farewells.

  “You just can’t be real.”

  “Reality is just a matter of perception, Jason.” She said back, her voice hitting him in smooth waves of heat. He could feel his face burn almost feverishly. “You told me that once, remember?”

  “You died. You’re not real.”

  The attempt to saying that in a strong and stiff voice failed right at the start; Jason could hear himself with such a weak and tr
embling voice that he barely recognized himself. His legs were saggy, shaky, risking total failure whereas his heart kept on jumping stronger and stronger, producing that twinge he had felt before… at the store.

  “How would I be here, then, Jason? I’ve always been here. For you.”

  Michelle took some steps towards him, who moved back in reflex, hitting the dining table and the chairs around it in the room. The noise distracted him and, when he returned his eyes to the stairs, she had already disappeared. Everything was at peace again, she wouldn’t…

  “Don’t run away, Jason.”

  The voice came from his right side, making Jason move away once more, putting the table between them. His eyes were partly clouded, compromising his sight. But it was Michelle. The same naturally outline eyes, adorned by that magnificent caramel shade only Michelle had in her eyes, a unique tone, special, so as she once were to him.

  “You’re not real, Michelle. You’re not…”

  “Jason?”

  This voice came from the stairs and looking for its source, he found Clarice atop of it, wearing that same blue rob of Michelle’s, drying her hair with the aid of a white towel.

  “Clarice!” He called her back, in relief. “Tell me I’m not crazy.”

  “She won’t.” Michelle whispered in his ear, although they were far from each other.

  Jason shut his eyes and tried to ignore her, maybe that way she would disappear as before.

  “Jason, are you alright?”

  “Tell me I’m not crazy!” He repeated and, this time, his roar spread through the house.

  Clarice risked some steps downstairs bewilderedly observing him.

  “Jason, what’s happening?”

  “She is here, isn’t she? She’s here.”

  “There’s no one else here, Jason, only--”

  “She. Is. Here!”

  Jason’s cry scared Clarice, who took a few steps back. She seemed lost between fear and compassion. He knew he was not at his best state of mind and that his eyes were once again drenched by tears and that he could barely control that trembling on his lips or that excruciating pain in his chest. But he also knew Michelle had to be real.

  “Who is here, Jason?”

  “She… she’s here, Clarice… Michelle. Tell me you can see her, too.”

  Jason indicated somewhere, but Clarice apparently didn’t correctly follow his guidance, for her eyes remained static, clean, as if she had been looking to a blank wall. He could see her and Clarice had to see her too otherwise he would be sure he was not fine.

  “Look… look again, Clarice.”

  “She is looking, Jason, but I’m here because of you. For you.”

  “Jason, I can prepare you some tea, or…”

  “Eu need no fucking tea!” Another roar that frightened Clarice. “I just…” Jason lowered his weak voice. “I just need you to see her too.”

  Clarice lowered the hands that had been holding on to the white towel and sighed. Jason believed she was about to tell him she was also seeing Michelle, and then he would ask her for details, just to confirm she was honest to him, so that he could have a good night’s sleep knowing she was really there, walking among them again. Clarice, in a defensive posture, walked down another few steps, but before she could reach for him, Jason heard keys jingling and felt a cold gust of air invade that part of the house.

  The door had been opened.

  Although his mind figured only Marco would enter home with the keys, as he turned, he saw again something he didn’t intend to see in that day.

  Marco also had turned. It was not Marco, it was the same demon from before, with some features that hardly resembled his son’s. His horns looked even more distorted and, in the snap of fingers, he was Marco again.

  Jason, however, knew it wasn’t. The demon wearing his son’s skin walked towards Jason, who saw himself cornered between it and Michelle, so he retreated, putting himself against a wall.

  “Do not get any closer.” He hollered to the demon, who could even be his son, but until being certain of it, he would let his guard down. “You’re not taking me, not today.”

  Clarice moved further onto his direction and he could feel Michelle’s amusement by his side.

  “You will be taken, Jason. And you’ll spend eternity by my side. We’ll remember all of our past together…” slowly he moved across the room, placing himself between Clarice and the demon. “You know this to be your fate and that the key to it is right here.”

  “No!” Jason yelled, trying to get himself further away, battling the resistance of the wooden wall.

  “Jason, please, calm down.” Clarice asked, trying to get closer.

  “What’s happening?” The demon asked, turning to Clarice.

  “Get away from him, Clarice. He wants to kill you too.”

  The demon turned to Clarice, with a frown, and then he looked at Jason, his horns writhing even more as the smoke spread through its cracked skin, bathing the small spiders walking around here and there.

  “You will not take her too from me!” Jason shouted and lunged towards the monster, on an attempt to knock him down and kick him out of there.

  Before he could do it, however, Clarice placed herself between them and pushed him, thrusting Jason against the chairs.

  And Michelle had gone, once more. And he could see his son.

  Jason scratched his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to put himself together.

  Everything was normal. Marco was just right over there, next to Clarice, who tried to calm him down, but the boy looked angry. Jason couldn’t understand, that was not his son… or was it? What was going on?

  “You’re drinking again, aren’t you?”

  “I…”

  “Settle down, both of you.” Clarice begged, trying to harmonize the place. “Jason? Are you fine?”

  “Of course, he is!” Marco’s voice rose like thunder as he moved away from her and advanced against his father. “He must’ve found some bottle of that old disgusting whiskey he so much cherishes. He’s gonna lose it again.”

  “Marco. I need a moment.”

  “A moment?! I mean, I’m trying to take her too from you?”

  “Marco, what I…”

  “Give him a moment,” Clarice requested, laying her hand on Marco’s shoulder, preventing him from moving on. “Your father’s not very well, he…” She seemed to try to whisper, too nervous to get it right. “He was seeing Michelle.”

  Marco’s face twisted as if he wanted to say a lot more stuff, but he refrained, simply snorting in discontentment. Clarice saw no need to try and break them apart again, the main reason being Marco, who shrugged and nodded and left towards the stairs. Before he could get up and disappear, he halted and turned to Jason, who was still trying to pull himself together and up with deep breaths.

  “My mother is dead, dad. And the fault is not mine. If you want to find someone out in the woods and pretend she could take her place, fine by me, just do not use her memory to justify any of that.”

  “Marco, shut the fuck up.” Jason finally asked, staring Marco directly in his eyes. “And do not ever talk to me like that.”

  “Because when I speak, it hurts, dad. And it hurts because I speak the truth. You’re a hypocrite and this whole scene was just because of your damn remorse for having done what you’ve done and because you cannot get rid of it now that you’re replacing her. Accept that and control your drinking.”

  “Marco!”

  But his son had already climbed up the stairs, disappearing in the darkness from above, leaving him alone with Clarice, who also seemed terrified, but a little warmer to the touch than Marco.

  “I’m not replacing Michelle with you. Please, don’t think…”

  “Jason, it’s alright.”

  Clarice walked to him and hugged Jason. He thought, at first, the hug meant crossing a line of intimacy they had scarcely defined, but only after feeling her grip did he understand the gesture. He needed that comfort, h
e needed that touch to bring him back to the ground and give him some peace.

  And all Jason wanted was to figure out what was happening to him.

  V

  Morning tracks were part of Marco’s routine, a habit that had started a few years back, after he started therapy due to his father’s request and the depression he was getting into after his mother’s death and, after a few weeks of adaptation, it became a fun frequent habit at times. That was a moment he had not only to exercise, but to alleviate his brains when clustered by domestic crisis, studies or the regular teenager concerns.

  Despite the fact that there were not so many crises at home anymore, for a while Marco had to struggle with the constant arguments with his father, mainly caused by his father’s alcohol abuse. For years his father had kept his sobriety and now Marco feared his long-abandoned torments could return. Had his father been drinking again, tossing years of group therapy and sobriety in the trash… because of a woman?

  He stopped his run and put his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath again. He was not just doing a brisk walk and the race depleted him from his strengths. Marco breathed while staring at the rough terrain which composed the track he was running on.

  Clarice could stay forever. She had only been with them for two weeks, but he knew his father well and knew how the old man behaved. He knew, also, how their relationship had come down to basic day-by-day conversations and that now it had started to evolve a little, most of it due to her presence in the house. Clarice could stay forever and that idea frightened him. They barely knew her and his father’s crises did not motivate him to crave her further stay. She was causing that; her presence was puzzling him and could also be the reason for the drinking.

  Ghosts were not damn real. So as his father and after his mother’s death, the only religious influence in his life, Marco had turned to atheism and that’s how he knew it. And not just for that. He thought the whole God idea to be too vague, even unexplainable, and he had no reasons to believe in lingering spirits. The father wasn’t seeing them, his head was creating it, that was the only plausible explanation. He had seen once at one of his TV shows that it was completely possible.