Trapped Within

by Bradshaw, Duncan P.

  In hindsight, as he visualized the ease with which a lie would slip from her lips, he realised, for the first time, that she was just a liar. Insecurity might have been a contributing factor to her deceitful habit, but now that the rose-tinted glasses were off, he could no longer make that excuse for her.

  Several other ‘small’ lies she’d told him came flooding back: she couldn’t wash the dishes, sorry, because she’d had an allergic reaction to the washing-up liquid (but only sometimes); no, she couldn’t go to the pub, because she’d been inexplicably throwing up all day (though she wasn’t ill), and come to think of it, he shouldn’t go out either because she needed to be looked after; she was allergic to gluten (yet she conveniently seemed to have no problem with bread, which was lucky because she absolutely loved sandwiches).

  The little things that he’d been aware were probably ‘untruths’ seemed different now. It was an irritating habit, but her lies had always been trivial and harmless. But with the new information he had, he realised that there was no such thing as a ‘little’ lie from Kelly; everything she lied about was designed to incite sympathy, guilt, or get her out of things she didn’t want to do. They weren’t harmless fibs; they were manipulations.

  Even so, he’d never thought that she was capable of going as far as pretending to be pregnant. Beyond that, he hadn’t believed that anyone could be capable of being so twisted as to invest in that illusion so fully, only to fake a miscarriage to avoid being found out when the baby bump didn’t start to show.

  For months, he’d looked after her through bouts of ‘morning sickness’, listening to her retching from outside the bathroom door. For months, she’d made sure that he couldn’t take her to her doctor’s appointments—they were always short notice, or rearranged for times that he couldn’t get out of work. On the occasions that he’d managed to change his shifts, her appointment had suddenly been cancelled, or she was too ill or tired to go.

  He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid, but all of this was only occurring to him now that he was watching it in his mind, one incident after another. It was obvious, in hindsight, but not being able to go to the odd appointment here and there, at the time, hadn’t struck him as odd.

  The thing that was hurting him the most and that had shortened his once impossibly long temper fuse, was the fact that she’d allowed him to love and prepare for a baby that didn’t exist. A son, she’d said. She had even sat there with him as he went through possible baby names. And then, she’d forced him to grieve. Not only that, but she had engineered the entire ‘miscarriage’ with the intention of making him feel responsible for it.

  She had watched him break down several times. She’d held him in her arms as he sobbed, in that week that he’d had to take off work because he couldn’t face leaving the house. She’d watched as he drifted and then entirely sank into a dark depression that made it difficult for him to open his eyes in the morning. She’d watched him struggle to make amends for what he’d ‘done’.

  And for what?

  As if she’d heard him thinking, she piped up again.

  “I shouldn’t have said I was pregnant, but I thought that we’d stay together for sure if I was. I wanted to be,” she said, the words tumbling from her mouth just like all her past lies had. “You weren’t paying attention to me, and I was sure your feelings were changing and I panicked and it just came out.”

  It just came out, James repeated in his mind. He laughed out loud. Kelly didn’t recognise the snorted laugh for what it was, and mistook it for encouragement.

  “I stopped taking my pill, thinking that I’d get pregnant for real and you wouldn’t have to know, but it just didn’t happen. The longer it went on, the more I panicked. I had to end it somehow.” She stopped talking and took in a breath, as though her excuse for it all was valid. When he didn’t speak, she went on.

  “No one’s perfect, Jay. It’s not like you’ve never lied before. Remember that night you told me you’d be straight home from work but then you went out drinking?”

  James looked at her, unable to stop his mouth from dropping open. The rambling excuse for what she’d done was one thing, and the comparison she’d made was an infuriating other. But it was the lack of remorse that was boiling his blood. He glared at her, still gripping the edge of the door. It was no longer just an outlet for his aggression, something to seize in his hand in place of her throat, but a handle to cling on to. He held on tightly, knowing that if he lost his grip, he was likely to launch himself on her, and he didn’t know what he’d do. That door now represented and embodied what was left of his dwindling resolve.

  “I know it wasn’t the best idea, but…”

  “You told me I’d killed our baby!” James exploded, cutting her off before she could say anything else to trigger him. “You made me think that I was having a son! I spent weeks decorating that room, building the…” his voice broke on the word ‘crib’. “I was pulling extra shifts, exhausting myself to make sure we’d have a good start with him. My parents gave us this house for him! We talked about nothing but baby names for weeks, and we went shopping—together—for all those baby toys and clothes. And then I lost him, and you as good as told me it was my fault. You made me think I’d killed him!”

  There was silence between them for a while, and then Kelly had the audacity to shrug. James’s fingers started slipping and he let them, because he had a feeling that the next thing she was going to say was going to be it.

  “But it didn’t exist in the first place, so I don’t understand why you’re going on about it now,” she said, pursing her lips.

  HE, James thought, choking back as much anger as he could. And it wasn’t real for you, because you knew it wasn’t. But for me, the whole time…

  “Most men just bugger off when the baby comes anyway,” she continued, oblivious to his hand coming off the door. “So don’t you try and make me feel bad for…”

  James lost it, and as he did, thick, black smoke poured from the chimney of the house across the road.

  When all was done, and the consequence of Kelly’s secret had played out, the ‘1’ etched into the door faded into the wood until it was no longer there.

  As Lannhill grew dark that night, the house faded away, until all that was left of it was that puff of black chimney smoke, dissipated many miles in the air above the town. It was no longer visible, but it hung there for a long time.

  Lannhill had never known a tragedy like the murder/suicide of James and Kelly. They were so young, most people said, when it came up in conversation, which it did for years. No one knew why it had happened; James had always been such a wonderful boy, and he and Kelly had been a perfect couple.

  Though the incident had been contained and limited to two victims, Lannhill, for a lot of people, no longer felt safe. People started to lock their doors at night again, and others moved away. The feeling of trust between them slipped away like the black smoke, and the community eventually unraveled. If a lovely, young man like James Walker was capable of something so heinous, then maybe someone else in their midst was capable of the same, or worse.

  As the town of Green Fields wrapped up its Christmas celebrations, people went to their beds happy and full of the kind of quiet contentment that comes after being involved in a large town event. But as they slipped into sleep, a cold spot appeared in the town centre. As the deepest, darkest part of night crept in, a house appeared. And as the town of Green Fields stirred under the first rays of morning light the next day, a number ‘1’ burned itself into the front door.

  Kayleigh Marie Edwards is a writer who can’t imagine why anyone would be interested in what she writes in her bio; after all, she’s not Stephen King or Dean Koontz or Anne Rice, or even Stephanie Meyer. But since we’re here, there are some important things you should know:

  - If you put cake near her, she’ll eat it

  - She loves Stephen King and if you have any way of introducing her to him then she begs that you, in the words of the brill
iant Captain Picard, ‘make it so’

  - She has an excellent zombie apocalypse plan

  K.M.E mostly writes comedy and horror fiction, stage plays, and articles. Most of her inspiration comes from real-life conversations, so be warned that if you’re in close proximity to her and you say something stupid, you’ll probably be used as material for an upcoming story.

  She can be found scribbling away at www.spookyisles.com, or responding to requests at www.gingernutsofhorror.com, where she has a page called ‘Challenge Kayleigh’. She boasts that she adores horror to the point of being capable of writing a positive review of any horror film – no matter how poor public opinion of it may be, so throw a challenge her way (there are prizes).

  You’re not still reading this, surely? The only reason this bio is this long is because she asked how long it had to be and was told ‘exactly 256 words’. (true story – Ed)

  The secret of life is… oh, she’s hit the word-count now so there’s no time for the answer, sorry.

  "Please don't be angry, Joshua," Maddie says. Her dark hair spills over her shoulders; her blue eyes gleam grey in the candlelight.

  "How can I not be angry with this?" He waves a hand toward the window, his shadow playdancing on the wall. Outside, all is somber, edged in sepia tones of a forgotten age, all moving closer, a little more each day.

  "Please," she says. "Let it go."

  "How can you not be angry?" he asks. "It won't be long now. It's coming faster now. It will be here, and we will—"

  "Be immortalized forever," she says. "Someone will come along one day and say yes, I remember this. I remember them."

  He laughs, the sound like broken glass ground in a fist. "There won't be anyone left."

  "There's always someone left. Always."

  He turns toward the window, giving her his back. He doesn't understand this new calm. She threw the phone across the room when it stopped working, hard enough to gouge the plaster wall. Holding a photograph of her parents, she cried for hours, screaming it wasn't fair.

  He had no one to call, no one to mourn.

  "Everything will be fine," she says.

  He looks out over the city. Over what's left. A handful of streets, apartments, offices, department stores, the edge of a park. The trees on this side are heavy with green, the buildings all red brick and glass and shining metal faces, but on the other side, the flat side, they are brown and tan and cream, reminiscent of a snapshot from the early 1900s. Wind pushes past the window and blows the curtains into a fabric ripple. The wind travels past the buildings into the park, and the leaves quiver. The other trees are as frozen in place and time as the rest of everything.

  Above the sepia world, the sky is a shade of caramel; the clouds, buttermilk. In the real world, the sky is pale blue and threaded with wisps of white. As the clouds scuttle across the sky and enter the other world, they stop and change color so quickly his eyes can't capture the transformation. When he glances at the place where movement ceases, a wave of dizziness strikes, complete with sweaty palms and a racing heart.

  He doesn't need to go to the windows offering a view from the back of the building. It's there, too, creeping closer and closer, sandwiching them between a nightmare and impossibility.

  "Nothing will be fine. Look at it." He jabs his finger toward the window. "Look at it."

  She pinches her bottom lip between her teeth and shakes her head. "I don't have to. I know what's there."

  A tiny jingle-jingle drifts through the air as a child rides a tricycle in the street, pedaling in wide, disconsolate circles. A young mother stands off to one side with her arms wrapped around herself in a cocoon of make-believe solace.

  Joshua closes the curtains and lights a cigarette, the smoke forming a halo around his head. Maddie's nostrils flare in disapproval. It doesn't matter, he almost says, but he traps the words inside. The little bell rings out again and disappears without an echo.

  Maddie might not be afraid anymore, but he's afraid enough for the both of them.

  "Come to bed," Maddie says.

  He doesn't want to sleep (What if it comes during the night, freezing them in place in their bed?), but he slips beneath the blankets and curls his fingers around hers.

  Once her breathing turns soft and even, Joshua climbs out of bed and locks the apartment door behind him out of habit, not need. The streets are deserted, the silence absolute, and the pavement swallows the sound of his passage.

  He steps to the edge of the real city and gazes across the street, a once busy tangle of shoppers, cars, taxis, a choking miasma of need and want and must have now. The air smells of apples turned sour and old perfume, but underneath, it holds the musty scent of cardboard boxes filled to bursting with old paper and ancient memories. He shivers, although he isn't cold.

  The sidewalk and most of the street is still real, still concrete and asphalt. In front of what used to be an office, he stares down the street, at the line where real meets unreal. The buildings, depleted of their natural colors, are all two-dimensional and flat, like paintings on a museum wall.

  In his peripheral vision, he catches sight of a woman dressed in a long black coat and white gloves, with a tiny hat balanced on the back of her head. She nods in his direction and continues on. He follows her, keeping a safe distance from the other world, until she comes to a stop. "My children came here," she says. "They wanted to see. That's my daughter." She points to a woman with short hair and earrings dangling to her shoulder. "My baby girl."

  "No, don't touch her," he cries, but he's too late; she's already reaching. The sepia pulls her in, expanding all the while to fit her into the tableau. In an eye blink, her coat turns mahogany and her skin a shade of parchment; her face wears sorrow mixed with expectation. Joshua backs away. The street has turned half grey, half walnut brown.

  He runs all the way back, back to the apartment, back to Maddie, safe and real and warm in their bed.

  They sit in the kitchen with the curtains shut and drink lukewarm tea and eat peanut butter and jelly on stale bread. After, he pretends to read while Maddie rummages around in their spare bedroom. When something crashes to the floor, he turns the book over on the table and finds her sitting on the floor surrounded by a jumble of forgotten things on her lap, an old lamp on its side behind her.

  "What are you doing?"

  She smiles, cheeks pink. "Remember the rose you made for me? On our first date?"

  "The one I made from the napkin?"

  "Yes." She lifts a battered and stained scrap of paper that resembles a squashed pumpkin with a long stem, not a rose. "I want to have it with me when it happens."

  He sits on the floor and cups his hands around hers, the misshapen flower in the center of their grip. The night he gave it to her, he knew he wanted to spend his forever by her side. But not like this. Never like this.

  "Maddie?"

  "What?"

  He tries to find the words, but a lump sits in his throat instead. When he finally chokes it down, he shakes his head, afraid he'll say everything wrong.

  He goes outside again the next night and stands in the quiet. A clock above one of the building doors stands frozen at 11:15; the watch on the wrist of the woman in the dark coat shows 2:23.

  Time stopped, and the world stopped with it, he thinks.

  On his own watch, the second hand ticks away. His time hasn't stopped yet, but it's close. His cheeks are wet with tears, tears he doesn't remember crying.

  Two nights later, he returns and sits on the curb with his elbows on his knees and his fingers linked beneath his chin. A wave of anger coils up from the inside, all scarlet and laced with thorns. When Maddie sits next to him, his shout of surprise fills the air, as quickly there as it is gone again.

  "You shouldn't be afraid. Maybe there's life inside," she says. "And maybe we're just seeing the echoes."

  "There aren't any echoes."

  "Not on this side, no, but who knows what's on the other side."

  "Maddie, there's
nothing. Can't you see that?"

  "If you're so afraid of it, why do you come here every night?"

  He sits up straight. She smiles.

  "I'm keeping tabs on it, that's all," he finally says.

  "But why? It will come for us soon enough. Then we'll know."

  He grabs her shoulders and gives her a shake. "What's happened to you? How can you be so damn calm?"

  She takes his hands away and presses a kiss to each palm in turn, her mouth warm against his skin. "I can't," she says, her words small and quiet.

  He bites back a sound halfway between a groan and a laugh. "What do you mean, you can't?"

  "I know you don't understand, but I can't be angry. I can't be afraid anymore." Her voice breaks; she takes a deep breath. "I know it won't do any good, and if I start crying, I don't think I'll be able to stop. I pray every night that this is all a mistake, that everything will be fine in the morning." She rests a fist between her breasts. "It hurts too much to be afraid. It's better this way. Trust me."

  "Oh, God, Maddie." He pulls her close.

  She trembles in his arms then pushes him gently away. "Let's go home."

  "I'm scared, I'm so scared—"

  She puts a finger to his lips. "Shhhh."

  They make love long into the night and fall asleep with their legs entwined.

  He wakes alone. He knows before he lifts his head from the pillow; the weight of the apartment has changed, lifted, the trapped exhalation belonging only to one, not two.

  No, oh, no. Please let me be wrong. She wouldn't leave me. Not like this. Not now.

  She left a note, her handwriting spidery and thin, on a small scrap of paper lying in the center of the kitchen table, one edge held in place with the salt shaker, a silly ceramic pig they'd found at a yard sale.