by Aaron Polson
“What do we do?” Joel panted after catching Danny at the alley gate.
Danny wiped his broad face with a sleeve. “Nothing. Let the old man’s nurse find him. She comes on Mondays.” He rubbed the back of this neck. “You want to call the cops? Now? With both of us stoned?”
Joel stopped. “What’s that? What do you have in your shirt?”
A flicker of gold called out from beneath Danny’s arms.
“Just some of the geezer’s junk, taking it to the pawn shop.” Danny shrugged his shoulders. “The dude’s dead, man. The Rothman gravy train has left the station. He doesn’t need this stuff anymore.”
Joel’s feet rooted to the spot as he watched Danny move down the alley. The house cast a shadow over Joel, a thin, dark thing like a veil. He felt the chill on his skin, felt Rothman’s dead eyes, and ran after his friend.
The ghost of Phillip Rothman stood in the shadows of Joel Gonzalez’s bedroom that night. His grey features were mist, a whitish wisp hanging in silence. He’d been in Joel’s soup earlier in the evening, a face wrapped in a ball of noodles. He left his handprint on the bathroom mirror after Joel’s shower. When Joel woke at half-past three, the ghost whispered to him.
“What now boy? Turn on the light and cry for your mother?”
Joel’s hand reached out for the lamp, but stopped. Beads of sweat mounted his forehead, and he felt the prick of his heart against his ribs.
“You want to know what it’s like, being dead?”
Joel pulled his quilt to his neck, the denim patches cold against his chin. His breath puffed out in a white breeze. The air froze. The room was too cold.
“You can see things you couldn’t before. Like that friend of yours.” The mist in the shadows shifted. “He’s a thief and a gutless coward. Those were family heirlooms, been with the Rothmans for generations. He took an elephant carved from ivory, too. Got that during the war.”
Joel closed his eyes. His nose began to drip. My imagination, he thought, just my imagination…
“Who do you think deserves a romp with Megahn Bristol, that chicken-shit thief or you?” The grey smudge came closer. “He should have to prove his courage, at least. You too. Afraid of a dead man—you’re nothing, Joel Gonzalez. Easily forgettable.”
Joel’s hand shot from under the covers and he flicked on his lamp. The room was empty. His breath invisible. Only a dream—he forced the words through his skull. Joel spent the next three hours awake, reading old comic books with the light on. Thoughts began to gnaw at the back of his brain, ideas about immortality and heroism, ideas whispered by the ghost of a dead man.
He saw Danny at his locker, trying to push his over-loaded bag inside.
“Hey,” Joel said. “What’s with the backpack?” He asked the question, but the bag sagged too much—Rothman’s treasure Danny had taken from the horde.
Danny scowled. “Just some stuff.”
“Rothman’s stuff.”
“Yeah. So what? I’m selling this crap after school, landing some cash for the big night.” Danny leaned in and whispered. “Meghan’s all mine tonight, brother.” Danny slammed the locker.
“You think it’s safe?”
Danny shrugged. “Safer than in my car, if that’s what you mean.”
A cold hand brushed across Joel’s neck. “No. Safe to take things from the guy. I mean what if you get caught?”
“God, you’re a dork.” Danny thumped Joel on the shoulder. “Lighten up, dude. No wonder you can’t score like me.” Danny smiled, turned, and walked down the hall.
Joel trudged through school that day like the dead. Rothman’s ghost lingered in every corner. His dark eyes stared from the burned-out bulb in the third floor boy’s restroom. His cold hand came through the icy tap. His voice whispered through the din of the cafeteria. But it was during the Beowulf exam that the angry remnants of Phillip Rothman made his presence felt the most.
In Mr. Gillingham’s classroom, Joel stared at the final question—“Explain the importance of storytelling in Anglo-Saxon culture.” He rubbed his stiff wrist and looked around the room. Danny finished early and was leaning back in his desk, eyeing Meghan. She bent over her paper, her lean hand carving sweeping script across a sheet of paper. Joel watched her hair rise and fall as her pen moved across the page. His eyes drifted down, watching the slow movement of her chest. His ears filled with the thud of his own heart.
“She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
Joel’s hand pushed too hard, and the pen spilled a small bead of ink on the page. As he lifted the tip, the ink smudged. His eyes darted from side to side. Rothman stood behind Danny’s desk.
He smiled, too wide again for his face, curling unnaturally at the corners.
“You going to let him leave me on my floor? I held one of my buddies while he bled from his mouth at Iwo Jima. Those bastards with the flag on Suribachi made it to the top of that hill on the backs of grunts like me.”
The mouth moved, but the words sounded inside Joel’s ear.
“And now you’re going to let me rot inside that house while your buddy feels up the girl you’re in love with?”
Joel’s mouth just barely opened. “No…”
“Are you going to let him steal from a dead man without some kind of punishment?”
Joel closed his eyes and pushed the heels of his hands against them, trying to rub away the image of Rothman’s corpse.
“Do you want to be somebody, Joel? A hero. Somebody to stick up for an old man. Somebody worth remembering?”
Joel dropped his hands. The words on the test blurred into a mass of dancing ants.
“Yes,” he muttered under his breath.
As the sky began the slow drift into its nightly shroud, Joel’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel in his mother’s car as he sat in Phillip Rothman’s driveway. Smoke began to trickle from the basement as he brought the cell phone to his ear.
“Hey, Joel,” Danny said on the other end of the line. “Look, I’m on my way to pick Meghan up.”
“Already taken care of.”
“What?”
“You better hurry. Rothman’s house is on fire.”
“What? What the fu—”
Joel’s breath caught in his throat as he tossed the phone on the passenger seat. His parents had both been very helpful, unwittingly, by leaving all the implements he needed behind while they left for a weekend retreat at a bed and breakfast in the Ozarks. Perfect.
His mother’s Taser didn’t knock Meghan out, completely. It was Rothman’s idea. He closed his eyes and remembered the look on her face, her smooth, beautiful face as the voltage surged through her—stunned, allowing Joel enough time to lock her wrists together with a cable tie and drop the pillowcase over her head. She was heavier than he thought, but he managed. She hadn’t fought at all, not after the Taser.
Joel watched orange fingers of flame spark in the basement windows.
Hurry up, Danny boy.
“He’ll be here, don’t worry.” Rothman smiled from the passenger seat. “Two birds with one stone, eh Joel?”
Joel nodded. “Yeah. Danny gets to be a hero.” His voice trembled slightly as he spoke.
“I’m taking it with me, Joel. All of it. The whole house. A big funeral pyre.”
“Just like Beowulf...” Joel’s voice was thin, distant.
A car screeched to a halt on the street. Joel climbed out of his mother’s car and slammed the door behind him. The house began to sputter and crackle, devoured by the flames. The air filled with the bitter tang of burning wood. Danny charged at him like a rhino in heat, lowering his shoulder into Joel.
Joel hit the side of the car.
“Fuck you, Joel. Where’s Meghan?”
Joel tried to grin. His back throbbed where it met the rearview mirror. He glanced toward the house, smoke now billowing from the first floor windows.
“God—” Danny grabbed Joel’s collar and slammed him against the car again. “You asshole.”
&nb
sp; Rothman’s ghost whispered.
Joel winced. “You going to be a hero, Danny?”
Danny cracked Joel across the chin with his right fist. Daggers of pain echoed through Joel’s spine as he staggered to the ground and spat blood.
Joel looked up from his hands and knees. He noted Rothman’s ghost shimmering in the light of the fire. “Wasting time...”
Danny hesitated for a moment. “I called the cops, you stupid son-of-a-bitch.”
Joel nodded. “Go on... Hero.” He leaned against the car and pushed himself into standing position. The air filled with the rifle crack of breaking glass as the heat smashed windows.
Danny turned and sprinted to the house. Joel had left the front door open, so Danny plunged inside, ducking into the dark smoke.
Rothman’s ghost joined Joel against the car, and both listened to Danny’s muted cries of “Meghan” until the whole house erupted in a plume of fire.
“The gasoline,” Joel said, imagining Danny’s feet tangled in the twine attached to the buckets filled with gas. Sirens sounded from blocks away, growing louder. Joel backed away from the heat of the inferno, closer to the trunk of the car. Muffled thumps sounded from within. He touched the cold metal with one hand while Rothman’s ghost smiled.
“It’s okay, Meghan.” Joel’s voice shook as he spoke. He brushed against his face with one shirtsleeve, wiping away tears and soot together. “Folks around here are going to remember Danny for a long, long time. They’re going to remember all of us.”
Little Fingers
Isaac Bauer’s fingers twitched, looking for something to hold. He quit smoking a month ago, but Anne was late. Anne was never late. He shoved a hand in his pocket and rummaged for a pack of gum. The gum would have to do. The sky over Springdale faded from pale grey to granite as he waited at the corner of 15th and Arthur, scraping the cracked sidewalk with the side of his shoes. Forty-five minutes after their planned meeting time, Isaac surrendered.
He had already left two messages, but he tried dialing her cell phone again. “Shit,” he muttered as Anne’s voicemail greeting sounded in his ear. He snapped the phone shut and breathed a long slow sigh, counting slowly in his head to steady his frustration. His nervous fingers found the small jewelry box in his jacket pocket and traced the corners and angles of its soft surface. She stood me up, he thought, and then, maybe she’s in trouble. “No. Nothing ever happens in Springdale,” he said to himself, shaking off the thought.
Before Isaac turned toward his apartment, he traced the path Anne would have taken to meet him at the corner. He walked down dark neighborhood streets and felt the closeness of the houses. He walked as far as the new playground, a slab of concrete with two looming lamps reflecting an odd orange hue from the sea of grey. A slight chill forced him to flip his collar around his neck and rubbed his hands together for warmth. Isaac surveyed the playground for a moment. He thought of Anne and felt a pit grow in his stomach. The grey air iced over, and Isaac walked home.
Isaac called Anne thirty times over the next few days. Nothing. Anne was gone. He drove to her house only to find black windows and her car in the drive. Without the car she couldn’t have gone far. His initial frustration had burned away, giving space to a solid fear, a growing unease about her safety.
“Springdale Police. Can we help you?”
“Yeah. I need to report a missing person.” Isaac’s hand trembled as he spoke. Calling the police made her disappearance serious, and that frightened Isaac.
“How long has the person been missing?”
“About three—,” Isaac glanced at the calendar on his refrigerator, “she’s been gone about a week.”
“Name?”
“Excuse me?”
“What is the name of the missing person?”
“Oh yeah. Anne. Her name is Anne.” Isaac’s neck started to burn and his stomach tightened.
“Last name?”
“Sorry. Renner.” Isaac pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, trying to see Anne’s face, her smooth strands of maple hair, her green eyes, and porcelain smile. “Anne Renner...” he repeated without thinking about his words.
“Sir, are you a member of Anne’s family?”
Isaac sighed. “No, no I’m not.”
“Relationship to the missing?”
“I’m her fiancé—er, boyfriend.” Isaac slumped to his bed. “She doesn’t have any family. No close family anyway.” One hand held the phone while the fingers of the other raked through his cropped hair. His eyes scanned the room, resting on the jewelry box on the edge of his desk.
Isaac drove past Anne’s house every day after work. He walked in the evenings, sometimes taking long, meandering trips through dark, quiet neighborhoods that would lead him down Anne’s street. He placed signs bearing her photocopied picture around town—little handmade posters that included his telephone number. The signs seemed unnecessary; Springdale was a small town, and news of a missing person traveled faster than a flame across an oil slick. Isaac called the police repeatedly, usually receiving an explanation that adults pick up and leave all the time; it wasn’t a crime.
Four weeks—almost a month—burned from the calendar, and Isaac’s phone rang.
“Hello,” Isaac said.
“Yeah, uh, are you the one who left the flyers up around town,” a voice said on the other line, “uh, Isaac?”
Isaac had dealt with pranks before, people who would call, harass him, joke about seeing Anne. “Yes,” he said.
“Look, I’ve got something for you. I’ll meet you at the bakery—you know the one downtown, Tasty Pastry. Tuesday, 7:00 AM. My name’s Nick.”
Isaac opened his mouth, but the line was dead.
Isaac arrived early. The late October air grew colder each day, and he was dressed in a simple blue sweater with an insulated flannel jacket. He stepped into the bakery and staggered in the warmth. Taking a seat with his back to the wall and next to the front window, Isaac slipped from his jacket and waited.
Most of the bakery patrons were old—retirees out for coffee and socializing on a Tuesday morning. An occasional younger man or woman would rush in, exchange a pleasant but hurried exchange with some of the retirees before snapping orders at the clerks, paying quickly, and zipping from the place. The door swung open, and a young man, probably in his twenties although not a native of Springdale—Isaac didn’t recognize him from high school—stepped into the bakery and moved his head from side to side, surveying the room.
“Nick?” Isaac asked.
He turned, showing a lean, long face, pale cheekbones at contrast with almost black hair, and foggy grey eyes. The man sat in a chair opposite Isaac, almost gliding like a ghost.
Nick studied Isaac for a moment before speaking. “Take this. I can’t explain more. I’d be in deep shit if someone knew I copied that.” He pushed a small envelope with a bulge in the middle across the table.
“What is it?” Isaac asked.
“Just watch it. I don’t know if it will help, but it will make you think.” Nick looked into Isaac’s brown, almost black eyes before he pushed from the table, muttered, “good luck” and slipped out of the door.
Isaac picked up the envelope and tore off a corner. A little black bullet—a plastic flash drive—fell out and rattled on the table.
On Isaac’s computer monitor, he watched the pixilated Anne Renner cross the street from Larry’s Market to the new playground. He looked at the picture of Anne above his desk, the smiling photo snapped at a picnic last summer. His eyes came back to the screen. Evidently Nick—or a friend of his, while operating the security camera in Larry’s parking lot, caught Anne and followed her. Isaac didn’t want to know why. The perspective zoomed closer until she nearly filled the screen. The image was blurry and a little grainy—especially after the zoom—but it was clearly Anne. Isaac recognized her coat and knew her walk. He watched as the video Anne passed behind a row of bushes, emerging on the other side as she cut across the basketball court.
And then she was gone.
Not gone as in a dark figure leapt from behind the bushes and kidnapped her gone. Not gone as in she walked out of the frame gone. Just gone, snap. Isaac’s stomach went cold, and his hand tightened on the mouse. He leaned forward, scrutinizing the monitor as he clicked the rewind icon. The mystery happened in reverse—one moment no Anne, then she walked backwards across the open slab.
He paused the video, reduced the frame rate, and played back the scene. Anne walked across the concrete again, and then disappeared. At the reduced frame rate, half of normal speed, Isaac noticed something. He reversed the clip again, set the disappearance to loop, and played back. The small, monochrome Anne vanished again and again until Isaac clicked pause, and advanced frame by frame. One frame she took a step, in the next her face changed—a dark blotch where her open mouth would be, almost a look of surprise. Something lined and grey seemed wrapped around her ankles, but the image was too rough to make out enough detail. In the following frame, Anne’s body seemed half devoured by the court. She was totally gone when he advanced another frame. Isaac hunched even closer to the screen. His stomach vaulted and blood thickened.
He sat there clicking forward and back, entranced by the odd sequence of images: one frame surprised, the next half gone, and finally no sign of her. He studied the time stamp on the video—6:49 PM. She would have been on time.
Snatching his cell phone from his desk, Alan punched the number for Larry’s Market. He stood and began pacing in his small apartment.
“Hello, Larry’s. How can I help you?” a withered voice asked.
“Yeah, hi. Can I speak with Nick.”
