He almost missed Goldy, absorbed in his pleasant memories. She flew out the doors, pulling at her gloves on the way. Was she late for work? Her hair played in the morning sun. The same shade as my mother’s, Morris thought, holding his breath. The same. She flew through the gate, heading, probably, to the road to get a cab. She didn’t notice the man watching her from behind the tree and then following her.
Oh, my girl, he thought, you’re going to fit so nicely into my collection. You’re going to be wonderful. So wonderful.
CHAPTER 11
His second trip to Watervliet was purposeful, not intuitive, but Max was still nervous. Maybe even more so. He kept wiping his sweating palms on his jeans; he drank water from a plastic bottle to refresh his dry throat, and adjusted the collar of his turtleneck. He couldn’t understand what was wrong with him. He just wanted to look at the house one more time. Maybe talk to the owner. It was a possibility, nothing more.
After his first visit, the dreams continued. The same house, only closer. Max still couldn’t get inside. As if somebody wouldn’t allow him to enter. At the same time, he knew someone waited for him there. As if he had visited this house before. Even if he could explain how he had seen the house from the outside, he still couldn’t find any explanation for his feelings of having been inside. If it was from an article or TV show, then why didn’t he remember it? He searched the Internet and even called his journalist friend, trying to locate any information about the house. His friend promised to call, but still hadn’t done it. Maybe he forgot, maybe he couldn’t find anything on the subject. Max kept looking. There were a couple of ghost houses in Watervliet and a few homicide locations, but he couldn’t find their pictures or it was a different house. He found a small article about an architect, Morris Bishop, who had saved a girl and been called a local hero, but there were no pictures of any kind, so Max didn’t consider it helpful.
He couldn’t stop thinking about house number five. Max had already started the novel. He threw together an approximate outline, even a couple of chapters that he most likely would delete or rewrite completely. He felt the book, but couldn’t put it into words. If he said it scared him, it wouldn’t be even close to the feeling he had. He had never had a problem executing his thoughts. He sat at the computer at nine each morning, opened the book’s file, read the last couple of sentences, checked his outline, and then was lost. His fingers barely typed out the events and images appearing in his head. He sat at the computer, stared at the white screen, and had no idea what to do. It was ironic, because he knew that it was supposed to be the easiest novel to write. Yes, the genre was unfamiliar, but it didn’t matter. The most important were characters, plot, and idea. The supernatural component was just a part of the whole picture.
He wrote a novel once, where the killer arranged a murder so that it appeared as if it had been committed by a supernatural force. His last victim thought she was going mad, hearing voices, seeing things. Max skillfully wrote those scenes in the plot, confusing readers, making them guess, turning the book from his typical mystery to suspense. The book became his most successful, holding the number three position on a New York publication’s bestselling list for a month. It was his first book to be optioned for a movie adaptation, and he had taken great pleasure in writing it. He had no doubt his new book would be the same. He expected to feel excitement over jumping into something new.
There was excitement, there was desire, there was passion, and there was a wall between his mind and the white page. A wall that he stared with fear and confusion. Invisible, but still there. He didn’t tell Anna or his agent about it. Foxtail would have a heart attack if he found out his favorite author had constipation of creativity. Max hoped that this writer’s block (if that’s what it was), would go away after he had seen the house, after he had learned what was inside of it, breathed its air, and talked to the owner. The person who lived there could tell Max the history of the house. Somebody probably had been killed there, and now it was full of ghosts. Maybe it would be enough to inhale the air and see the walls to shake the invisible barrier from his mind and to rid himself of the unreasonable fear.
He found the street easily. Last night, the weather became warmer, it rained, and there were puddles on the potholed road. His car drove past a woman with a little girl. Both wore colorful jackets and rubber boots. They were two bright spots sticking out against the background of gray sky, muddy road, and dull houses.
He stopped by house number five and sat in the car for a few minutes without movement, fascinated now as he had been the first time by the particular detailing of his dreams. The number five on the house was even peeling. For a split second, he thought the number on the house used to look different. The real one was faded in the middle by rain or time, but the one he’d seen in his dream was new. In addition, the shade of green on the fence seemed darker. Max chuckled over this observation. His imagination was playing with him, not his memory, or something else that was responsible for the image creation in his mind.
After drinking some water out of the bottle, and checking himself in the mirror to make sure he didn’t look like a trapped rabbit, Max left the car and approached the green fence. Mother and daughter in rubber boots, crossed the road to his side and stared at the stranger, continuing to walk in his direction. He smiled at them, then stepped on the path and walked to the house where he pressed the bell two times. The bell was simple, metal with a black button. Just like the one Max dreamed about. Wicker rocking chairs were covered in dust, but the porch looked clean. By the door, there was a flowerpot filled with dirt, but no flowers graced it.
At first, nothing happened. The woman with the girl came closer.
“Are you a journalist too?” the woman asked without stopping. “Want to write another article about our hero?”
“Yes,” Max agreed, just to deter unnecessary conversation, even though he wanted to ask what she was talking about and what kind of hero lived behind those walls. The woman didn’t look friendly in spite of her bright boots and the kid.
“Yeah, yeah,” she mumbled as she walked away.
Max pressed the bell again and heard something bang inside the house. He shifted from one foot to the other, took his hands out of his pockets, and rubbed them together.
“It’s like a first date,” he murmured with irritation. It actually was sort of a first date. With a person who lived in the house from his dreams.
“Who is it?” a male voice asked.
About fifty or so, Max thought.
“Ah … Hi. I’m Max Stevenson. I’m a writer and …”
“I’m sorry, but no interviews,” the man interrupted. “One was enough. I didn’t do anything heroic. Also, you should call before coming. You can’t just appear here without an invitation.”
“No, no. I don’t really know what you mean. Sorry, I didn’t let you know about my visit. It was spontaneous. Plus, I don’t know your phone number.”
You could find it, dummy. Max was irritated by his slow thinking. He didn’t recognize your name, so he’s not a reader. Or not your reader.
“What do you want, then?”
“I’m a writer. I write mystery novels.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Max snorted. “You see … I know it will sound strange, but I saw your house in my dream. I probably saw it somewhere else before, which is why, but I’m writing a book and this house will be the center of the events.”
“You understand how that sounds?”
“I do.”
“Some strange man comes to my door, calls himself a writer, tells me he dreamed about my house, and now he wants to write about it.”
“It does sound stupid, but it’s true. I can show you my I.D. And my books! If you want to see them.” Max turned to the car. He always had a few copies in his trunk. He always found someone to gift them to.
“Yeah, thanks, but I’m not an idiot. A writer.” The man behind the door chuckled. “He dreamed about my house. Did
you dream about a naked Pamela Anderson? Maybe you think I’m hiding her here. Bye.”
The last words sounded distant. The owner of the house moved away.
“Wait!” Max yelled. “Please! Just tell me if anything unusual has ever happened in this house. Like a murder. The problem is …” Max waved his hand. The man probably couldn’t hear him now and wasn’t going to open the door. He was right. Anyone could appear at his door and call himself a writer, an actor, or the president. Maybe the owner would open to the president.
Max turned away from the door, when he heard a screech behind him. Looking back, he saw the door opened a crack. Another second and he faced a man of average height, body type, and age. He wore glasses in a thin metal frame; his hair was smoothed back and had traces of gray. He had a white T-shirt on and black sweat pants. He looked pale, which could be his natural skin color. Max had seen this man; he was sure of it. But where? Could he have imagined this?
“What made you think that somebody was killed in this house?” he asked, looking into Max’s eyes. His gaze was intense, as if he suspected his visitor of a murder. Maybe he didn’t suspect, but was sure Max killed people and it was better for him to confess before it was too late or else.
“I don’t know if anything bad has happened in this house. Sorry.” Max took a step toward the man and he moved back, hiding in the darkness of the house, ready to shut the door at any moment.
Max stopped.
“I do know it sounds strange, but I’ve had dreams about your house every night for two weeks. It was on TV and my mind, for some reason, fixated on it. I thought that some mystery has to surround this house.”
“No mysteries,” the man said icily. Max noticed red spots developing through the paleness of his skin.
“I saw you too,” Max said stubbornly.
“Yes. There was an article about me in the newspaper,” the man said impatiently. “I saved a girl. Nothing special.”
“Right!” Max snapped his fingers. “Right! It just came to me. That was when this all started. It must have said something about Watervliet. I just don’t remember if there was a picture of your house as well.”
The man looked down then back at Max.
“No.” He shook his head. “And there were no murders in this house. As far as I remember. This house belonged to my mother. She bought it new.”
“I understand. It gets even stranger though. If there was no picture of your house and I … Confusing.” Max realized he was crossing some boundaries and understood that he was irritating the man, pushing him, but sometimes it was necessary in his profession. And he felt, he knew that he needed to get inside of this house to write the book. He had to look at it, feel it. He had to understand.
“Is that it? Did I answer your questions?”
“Sorry, what’s your name?”
“What do you need my name for? I told you, no one was killed here.”
“Yes, I understood that. Don’t take it wrong, but I really need to look at the house from inside. It’ll only take a few seconds.”
“Really? Want to know where I keep my money too? I don’t keep money at home by the way.”
“Just a couple of minutes? Please?” Max used his patent smile. It usually worked on women or men.
“Are you crazy? I don’t know you!” The man glanced behind Max’s back. Max also looked there and saw an older woman across the road standing by her house and watching them.
“She’s a witness. Also another woman with her daughter saw me standing by your house. Do you want to see my I.D.? My books? Do you like to read? I write mysteries, but want to try my skills at supernatural. That book will be about your house.”
The man moved his jaw, looking at Max who kept smiling, then he opened the door wider, but didn’t step back to let him in.
“Two minutes and get out.”
“Thank you.”
“What’s your name?”
“You want to write it in your book?”
“If you want me to.”
“No.”
“Just to address you somehow.”
“I’m Morris. Two minutes. Touch nothing.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
Finally, Morris moved away, letting Max walk inside. His facial expression was strained, as if he was tortured.
“You can go to the kitchen and living room, nowhere else.”
“Got it. Thank you.”
Max entered the room that was cramped with dark furniture. Abstract art, mostly in red tones, hung on the walls. There were wooden statuettes of animals and people on tables and shelves.
“Are you an artist?” Max asked.
“I’m an architect. Does it matter?”
“These paintings are beautiful.”
The man didn’t respond.
“What about …?”
Max stopped mid-sentence from a sudden wave of vertigo. He staggered and grabbed onto the heavy table with newspapers scattered on it. The surroundings became blurry; the smell of detergent and coffee made him nauseated.
“What’s wrong with you?” he heard from behind him.
The man’s voice seemed compressed, as if it entered Max’s ears through a layer of cotton.
He had been in this house. He had been here. He’d seen these paintings, this table, and these walls. Blood pulsed in his ears, the room swung, and the floor started moving toward him. Then everything went dark.
CHAPTER 12
Max’s head flopped back from the strike, pain gnawed in his temples, forehead, and the back of his head, and he opened his eyes. Furniture legs, Oriental rug, and the suffocating smell of dust.
“You’re back, snotter,” the man said. Max turned his aching head to him. The man hung over him with a glass of water, his eyes full of hatred. It softened a bit after Max tried to smile.
“I had to slap you. You didn’t react to words or water.”
Max touched his burning and wet cheek, and then started to rise slowly. First, he sat up, and then grabbed the table and stood on his legs. The man didn’t volunteer to help.
“Why did you fall? Are you sick or something?”
“No.” Max rubbed his forehead.
“You could have split your skull.”
“I don’t know what happened.”
Max looked at the walls, art, statuettes again.
“You said it’s your art?”
“I wanted to become an artist. Long time ago.” Morris’s words were dry and felt like he had a duty to answer.
“I’m sorry. I really don’t know what happened. That’s never happened before.”
“Water?”
“No, thanks. Are the cabinets in your kitchen green? Like, light green?”
When the man didn’t answer, Max turned to him. The man looked at him with his eyes narrowed.
“They are?” Max was surprised.
“They used to be. How do you know?”
Max shrugged.
“I don’t know. I must have seen this house somewhere. How could I know about it? I’ve never even been in Watervliet before. It’s my second time here today.”
“Okay, stop blabbering. Did you take a look? I need to get back to my work.”
“Yes, sorry. Thank you for letting me in.”
“Are you really a writer?”
“Yes, do you want …?”
“I don’t want anything. What kind of book are you going to write about my house?”
Max rubbed his forehead. It was a good thing the floor was carpeted; otherwise, it could be much worse. A bruise would appear anyway and Anna was going to ask questions.
“It will be a story of murder and revenge. Probably ghosts.”
“Murder and ghosts? In my house? You’re crazy. No one has been killed in this house.”
“Maybe before your mother bought it?”
“I would know about it. Can you walk? Do you need some water?”
“I’ll take a couple of sips of cold water.”
The man looked
inside the glass and then at Max. The look on the man’s face said that if a murder hadn’t happened here before, it certainly could now. He left the room.
“Don’t touch anything,” he said as he moved.
As soon as Morris walked out, Max touched the smooth surface of the tablecloth with his hand, and then took a couple of fast steps from the living room to the doorway of the adjoining room. He glanced in there and immediately leaned against the wall to keep himself from falling again. This time it wasn’t just dizziness, but he felt like a hot cloud of white fog poured over him, depriving him of the ability to see. Or maybe not exactly that. He saw. White walls. Only white walls.
“What are you doing?”
Max swayed and turned to the owner of the house, at the same time unbuttoning his coat and pulling the scarf from his neck. His vision returned, but he lost the ability to breathe.
“Nothing, I’m … My head … I don’t understand.”
Morris gave Max a weeping glass of water. He accepted it and took a couple of sips as promised. Icy water burned his throat and went down to his stomach, restoring his breathing and saving him from the last signs of vertigo.
“Thank you.”
The glass went back to Morris.
“I told you that no one has been killed in this house. Find something else. Something more suitable. Maybe even with a couple of corpses in the garden.”
“I don’t think I can do that. My new book is connected to this house and I want to understand why. You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to write about you personally or even name the city. The house will be just for atmosphere. As an artist, you should understand that. Can I see the layout?”
“You know what? I just remembered that I have a meeting today. I’ve got to leave in a minute.”
The man headed to the door, flung it open, and looked impatiently at his uninvited guest.
The land of dead flowers: (A serial killer thriller) Page 6
