The Woman Hidden

by Lucas Mattias

  Deep down, he really wanted a drink. He wouldn’t, though. Not only for himself, for his son and the vows from his periodical meetings. He wouldn’t drink for Clarice. He needed the sobriety because he needed her. And Clarice would only stay if he kept on being that person she had just known. And the person she knew had no addictions, was not an alcoholic and didn’t drown his frustration in a bottle of whiskey anymore. The real Jason, the one who did all those things, that Jason was buried somewhere. Hidden, calmed. And he preferred things that way. He didn’t need the other Jason.

  When his eyes met the floor and the pieces from the mug, his memory was once more activated. He had seen a similar scene, he had even seen liquid under the pieces of porcelain…

  Martha. His chest jumped when he thought about the dead lady again. The shards were also present in her kitchen. She had probably gotten scared just like he did, perhaps by seeing her dead husband or, according to the hypothesis he was leaning more towards accepting, by seeing Clarice’s husband and confusing him with a ghost. By habit, Jason stood up and glanced around. Clarice was still asleep and there were no signs of life outside the house. Or so he thought.

  Maybe he needed another tea. And a cigarette. Better yet, he would take Clarice’s hot chocolate, he had kept some of it in the fridge, all he needed was the microwave and a cigarette to go with it. The cigarette was something he was not going to give up on.

  Jason put the rest of the chocolate in an intact mug and put himself to pick the other mug’s wreckage from the floor. With care, he picked the bigger ones, leaving the small ones to be removed with the aid of a sponge until the floor was completely clear again.

  As if by coincidence, the microwave beeped right after he threw the remains of the mug on the trash, getting rid of another problem. The floor was still wet, but nothing that could deeply affect the structure from the floor wood. He removed the red mug from the oven and tasted a little of it, just to confirm it was as good as before. From his sweatpants, he pulled out a crumpled pack of Morley’s and the old beaten up and scratched Zippo that had never abandoned him.

  Jason opened the door to the deck and ventured into the cold, feeling that outside was much colder than his presumption, so he embraced himself while the wind attacked and lit the cigarette after some effort, keeping the mug steady in his hand. He unwieldly put the lighter back in his pocket, placing himself behind one of the wooden columns from the suspended deck, trusting it to be enough to protect him from a more powerful blast of wind.

  And the wind hissed and whistled and shrieked and made pines dance and snowflakes swirl in the night. The feel of thousand blades against his face was intense, but the feeling of kicking all of that away with deep drags from his cigarette and being able to release that thick warm smoke into the night was enough for him to ignore the pain caused by the cold.

  All reasons aside, it was a living pain. Jason called as such those pains that gave him the feeling of being alive. Some would just hurt, like a migraine or a toothache, but feeling the cold wind, for example, made him realize he was alive and that he needed something more to feel better. He loved the winter and the snow and the feelings brought by that time of the year, but more than that, he loved the intense desire for somewhere warm or for his blanket, the need of a hot shower or a beverage that could take him away from that extreme blizzard. Those were extreme experiences that always made him feel alive – and in control of himself.

  He took a long gulp from the hot chocolate, his head slightly making him wish the drink had been at least tainted by two drops of bourbon, and he inhaled again, being careful to turn to the house and try to find Clarice asleep, in peace, warmed up. The cigarette was still by its half, he would have to torture himself a little more in the cold. He lifted his eyes and looked for the woman.

  And there she was.

  Just like the figure he saw passing by the stairs.

  The lights were supposed to be off, all of them. The lights from the stairs weren’t on before. Or were they?

  Jason tried to certify he was in his clear mind and that his memory was still working as it was supposed to. He had left all lights, except for the natural one coming from the fireplace and the kitchen, right?

  Memory didn’t seem to offer help. The figure could’ve been just Marco, right? Could be his son looking for something in the kitchen, taking advantage of his father’s ramblings outside, couldn’t he?

  If it were Marco, he would’ve heard something. Marco didn’t know he was outside, smoking and enjoying a tasty hot chocolate. But what if…

  He needed to go in and check. By lifting the cigarette for one last drag, he found it off already, only the filter remaining between his fingers. How long had he stood there still? Or was it just the strong, ravaging wind?

  Jason ignored his own questionings, tossed the filter away, hardly worried about the mess he was making in his own backyard, and entered the house. He slid the glass doors gently, trying to capture every possible sound in the house.

  Nothing, besides the crackling from the fire.

  And the lights were off.

  He closed his eyes and shook his head for some minutes. He was tired. It had to be his exhaustion and probably some reflection on the glass from the door made him believe to have seen a figure. Nothing more. He locked the deck and made sure it was duly locked.

  Jason put the mug on the sink and slowly moved to the living room, confirming Clarice was still immerse in her sleep state. Her position had changed and now she had her backs to him, but still asleep. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, carefully glancing upwards, not only to the stairs, but to the floor above, to confirm it was all quiet. And it was.

  Slowly he walked up the steps. He feared leaving Clarice alone, but also didn’t want to leave the rest of the house at risk. It was nothing, nobody. A delusion he had for a brief moment or maybe just Marco passing by. Nothing more. Michelle had disappeared and her ghost would be the only plausible explanation.

  Nathan. The name came to his mind in a whisper. It was not possible, he knew, but the fear kept on scratching his nape.

  Upper floor. Nothing. All lights were off there too, except for the one coming from under Marco’s door, which was across from the bathroom. The son was still up, probably surfing his social networks or stuck at some TV show in his computer, but there was no sign he had ever left. Jason watched around.

  To be safe, he followed to the bathroom, with slow and calculated steps, and opened the door. The smell of bleach and disinfectant invaded his nose, but nothing unexpected. He hit the lights.

  Click.

  Nothing. The bathtub still had spots and faint stains of blood and the flashes from hours before jumped right in front of his eyes, but there was no one nor anything inside.

  Jason turned the lights off and closed the door behind himself, halting for a moment in front of his son’s bedroom. He heard noise of typing on the computer and something that could be chewing, but nothing more either.

  Then he looked to his own room. The door was open and he didn’t remember leaving it that way. As much as Clarice had been sleeping there, his things were all kept in the room, serving her simply as a dormitory. The lights were also off, but there was a silver shade coming from the large window he had in there.

  With the same slow and measure steps from before, Jason moved towards the room. The only sound he could hear was the light creaking of wood underneath his feet. One step after the other, heart accelerated. He could even hear his own pulse in his ears. For some reason, he was feeling jolted again, and slightly numb.

  Adrenaline. The worst of all drugs.

  By venturing a couple more steps and seeing beyond the doorsill, he noticed there was another sound in the place, a sound he couldn’t easily figure. It was rhythmed and sounded familiar, though distant and somehow echoing. It was like something hitting the floor… multiple times. As if by coincidence, he figured was the sound was like as soon as he turned the lights on and confirmed it, all at the
same time.

  His bed was soaked, completely covered by water. The ends of the sheets and blankets dripped into puddles on the floor in a unique rhythm, causing a weird vertigo in Jason.

  Was it real? Or a product of his imagination, just like the bathroom flooded in blood?

  The water was real, wasn’t it?

  He dared two more steps and felt the liquid wet the socks on his feet.

  It was real.

  Or wasn’t it?

  He had seen things he thought to be real before and that, in the end of the day, were an illusion, right? The grocery. Yes, he had. It was not real, just another haunting, something his mind had built.

  There was something else, though.

  In the middle of the bed, also soaked up, there was a small book of black cover and yellowed pages.

  Jason immediately recognized the object, but…

  “It’s impossible.” He murmured to himself, approaching the bed.

  It was not possible. He had burned that same diary a few nights before. It was not possible.

  He neared the bed, the feet freezing in the cold water, and took the diary into his hands. He’d just have to go through the wet pages to confirm what he had read before, then he’d be sure it wasn’t the…

  Jason flinched and hardened all his muscles and even let the diary drop when he heard a noise like an explosion deluge the room. The sound was as powerful as that of a car in high speed crashing against…

  … against rocks. Against the rocky bottom of a cliff beside a road.

  The same sound he had heard the night Michelle died.

  Not the same, it was not possible. Michelle was no longer there and Clarice…

  Clarice.

  Jason abruptly turned to the door and ran, speeding out of the room in desperation.

  “Clarice!” He yelled, looking for an answer that didn’t come.

  She could be in danger. Maybe that bang was a sign she was in distress again, as before, that intuition he had and that had saved her.

  Jason crossed the corridor in a flash, without necessarily seeing himself crossing the hallway – so fast he ran, it was as if he were floating on the wood. When he turned to go down the stairs, a bigger scare filled him. An explosion came from the stairs, throwing flames everywhere.

  Jason jumped back, feeling the air run out of his lungs when his back his hard the solid way behind him. The stairs were slowly burning up, blocking his own way down.

  “Clarice! Clarice, protect yourself!” He screamed, trying to find a way to go down.

  Where were those flames coming from? Was it a fireplace malfunctioning?

  Jason moved closer, but the flames advanced again against him in a small explosion, making him dizzy with the sudden heat and the thick smoke.

  The next shout to go out of Jason’s chest echoed through the walls of the cabin, a yell so powerful it was possible people had heard it miles away from the house. That scream was real, it was fright and despair, a legitimate scream that not everyone has the chance of one day producing in their lives. A shout that came from the deepest of his core, scratching its way out through his throat walls and escaping as an imprisoned demon.

  Jason fell to the floor, floundering. He was burning, but not by the flames from the stairs. The fire was inside him, trying to escape, as if coal stones were crackling in his chest and in all his inner cavities. His skin was red-hot burning, soot was coming out of his nostrils and mouth, his fingers seemed ready to erupt and explode in ember.

  And the yells repeated themselves. He couldn’t breathe.

  As he desperately gazed to his own hands, he noticed the cracks that started to appear, deep and dark sulks with smoke escaping in hisses, it was even possible to see the hot as lava interior trying to expand and explode… just like that demon he had seen in the grocery.

  He had become the smoking demon. He was, inside himself, that demon.

  “Marco! Marco!” He called, trying to be heard, but it was hard to scream now that the smoke had spread along the corridor and the rest of the cabin.

  He would die there. He was sure of it. He would die there, burned, with his son and sleeping Clarice. At least she would die in her sleep.

  He screamed again, asking for help. The cough came stronger this time and a thick, dark mucus was ejected by his lips. The heat was becoming more intense and he didn’t know how much of that he could stand. His heart was in flames, his eyes burned, about to explode and…

  He felt a slap. A strong slap against his face, setting the flames and the heat away for moments.

  The heat returned, but when Jason yelled again, another hit was felt and, for a second, he saw his son’s face.

  Marco needed to run before those damn flames reached him, he shouldn’t be losing time with an old and demoniac man. No!

  “Dad!”

  Another slap came and, suddenly, all smoke had disappeared… just like the flames.

  “DAD!” Marco yelled, shaking Jason by his shoulders.

  Jason felt his head hit the hard floor and, now, he was also free from the flames himself. The ember inside him went out like magic, as if by the water coming from his room.

  “Every day this same shit!” Marco mumbled, sitting beside his father and leaning back against the wall.

  Jason, lost, observed all around. Besides the lights that were on and Marco’s wide opened door, everything was normal. The cough was still present, as if the soot were real and had stuck to his throat.

  What kind of creepy dream was that? What the hell was going on?

  Jason put himself sat too, beside his soon.

  “I was hallucinating, wasn’t I?”

  Marco tilted his head in agreement.

  “You’re not good, man.”

  “I’m not good, son.”

  He was now regaining control of his out-of-rhythm breath as he tried to make sense out of what had happened. He was perspiring, the same way when he woke up from the dream that had driven him into choking Clarice. And Michelle… She was not there this time, was she?

  Jason.

  The hiss entered his ears, coming from the room. Looking at the door, he didn’t find Michelle. There was just a puddle flowing out, indicating him the water, at least, seemed real.

  “Is there water coming out of my room?” He asked, hoping Marco to either confirm or deny it.

  “Yes.” The boy replied, uninterested.

  “Clarice?”

  Marco shrugged.

  Jason, supporting himself on his son, tried to put himself up. If Clarice hadn’t woken up after all his screaming, maybe she’d need some professional monitoring and not only handmade observation. He would go down to verify how she was and, if that was the case, he would convince her to…

  Another crash. This time, louder and closer. Again, it was like a windshield shattering against stones. The same way he heard the night Michelle died.

  The only thing that made Jason realize it was not a delusion was Marco’s startled face, who had also heard it.

  Marco had heard the boom.

  And Clarice’s scream that came from the floor beneath.

  The boom was heard again, this time followed by the clinking of glass on the floor, by the heavy steps of someone, by Clarice’s shouts.

  Jason and Marco ran downstairs and, this time, it all stayed normal.

  Clarice was not at the sofa, her blanket was tossed on the floor, although the fireplace kept on burning as before. Jason observed his surroundings, puzzled. Where was she?

  “Clarice?”

  Nothing.

  Acting on instinct and without saying another word, Jason placed his hand on Marco’s chest and pointed him the stairs, gesturing him to go back. Marco, after a silent struggle with hand gestures and angry eyes, took a few steps back and climbed one or two levels up.

  Jason, near the fireplace, grabbed one of the metallic fire pokers; it could be part of his delusion, but that fear that something bad was about to happen pumped in his throat.
r />   Holding the poker in his hand in attack position, he slowly walked to the kitchen. The light in there flickered and he knew that, up to a few minutes before, it was in perfect condition. The cold sweat ran down his forehead, sliding through his eyes and nose, causing a bothering and terrifying itch when mixed to his fear. The awe kept on throbbing in his chest and throat, intensifying his discomfort.

  One step after the other and, finally, he reached the kitchen. On a jolt, he turned around, waving the poker as a baseball bat, but only finding an astonished refrigerator under the oscillating lights.

  And just then he realized where the freezing wind was coming from and that it was not something brought by his imagination.

  The sliding glass doors from the suspended deck was blown away, the glass completely shattered all over the kitchen, the dark marble island, over the furniture and disposed objects. Objects that were also scattered all around as if a tornado had hit that part of the house. The wind entered the house without ceremonies, dragging all it met and casting a bigger torment on the ghostly effect from the flickering light and the destruction Jason saw in front of his eyes.

  He faltered, the poker threatened to slip through his hands.

  He turned again when he heard something creaking on the window from the ground, but stopped himself when he saw Marco.

  “What happened here?”

  And the first thought that came to Jason’s mind hit him like a punch in his stomach.

  Clarice.

  Marco walked to the busted doors and kneeled, confused, while Jason didn’t know what to do. His hands shivered and he couldn’t see Clarice anywhere.

  When Marco lifted his finding – a rock the size of a football – Jason felt the hot chocolate from before try to come back to his mouth in an impulse.