Don't Forget to Breathe

by Cathrina Constantine

  My feet stepped to their own accord and stopped at her picture. “Mom, what happened here?” Pivoting to the bed I gathered the border in my hand and sailed back the comforter. Same sheets. Russet stains bled into the threads in a disorganized manner.

  The police could get a DNA sample from the stains and establish who belonged to the droplets. “Mom, is this your blood? Is this where it all began and ended in our house?” My knee sunk into the mattress as I planned on stealing the sheet and take them to Detective Dyl.

  I tugged on the sheet to dislodge the corner, then heard a definite swish of a door.

  Chapter 30

  In the course of turning, a solid body flattened me to the bed. A hand gripped the back of my skull and mashed my face into the mattress, making it hard to breathe. Someone strangled my arms behind me. I screamed into the sheets. A zip-tie or some kind of cording tied my wrists, it hurt like hell. A body weighed heavily over me. I grunted while catching a whiff of oxygen.

  Held captive, legs bracketed my body as someone pressed my arms into my back. I tried lifting my head only to be battered down. A cloth wound my eyes, blinding me. Something jammed into my mouth to muffle my screams.

  His weight shifted and I felt a reprieve and acquired a nose full of air. Drool saturated my gag as I screeched, sounding like a ghostly wail. Two arms excavated beneath my waistline, fingers seeking the zipper of my jeans. Oh my God he’s going to rape me!

  To foil the pervert, I thwacked my legs like a manic. In retaliation I received a boring knuckle into my shoulder blade. He lay on top of me sinking my body farther into the mattress, impeding my hysterical squirming. A chin dug into my shoulder. “Stop fighting me. Or you’re going to get hurt,” an abrasive voice said. He climbed off.

  Again fingers scraped into my skin at my hips and he yanked off my jeans. I felt the force of his hands on my ankles, slapping my legs together, and material bound around my kneecaps. The mattress buckled under the weight of his body as he lay beside me. A large hand cupped the back of my skull and slowly nudged my face into the mattress. He was suffocating me.

  “Don’t follow me. Don’t look for me. Don’t tell the police—I know where you live.”

  From lack of oxygen, I passed out.

  ***

  My eyelashes brushed the blindfold as they fluttered open. My arms were free and achy, lying by my sides. I extracted the gag from my mouth, then slid the blindfold over my head. I rolled over and noticed my knees roped with my jeans. Feeling woozy and unwinding my jeans, I scooted off the mattress and shoved my quaking legs into my pants. I spied a pair of woman’s nylons and a sock. My gag and bondage.

  “Gross.” The guy must’ve found them in one of the bureau drawers. I presumed he hadn’t been expecting company and hid in the rubble of junk when he heard clomping on the stairs. Perhaps I just missed him at Mom’s graveside where stood similar pink lilies.

  My cell beeped in my pocket. I had two texts, one from Nona and Henry. Nearing three o’clock, I’d been knocked out for a while. The flashlight was in the corner, broken. I felt the need to take it, leave no evidence behind. Packing it in my pocket I came in contact with Detective Dyl’s business card. My fingers itched to make the call. Abrasive words resonated through my aching head, “Don’t follow me. Don’t look for me. Don’t tell the police. I know where you live.”

  I tucked the cell into its usual place and made a slap-dash sprint down the staircase, not stopping for a breather. Once outside I surveyed the cul-de-sac wondering if the guy might be hiding somewhere, waiting and watching. It appeared clear, and I doubted he’d take a chance of being recognized.

  My unwavering plans were to be gone, off Lucien Court before sunset. I headed to my next task.

  Since Mom’s murder, my toe hadn’t touched the inside of the house. A total recall of that day had not been forthcoming, and for the past year, I was good with that. But, now it was vital for my own sanity to remember.

  Dedicated to my mission, I charged the porch steps of our old home and wedged the gold-toned key into the lock of the front door. It had always been tricky to operate, and the procedure came to me like it was second nature. Left, right, and a jiggle.

  Dormant musty air engulfed me from the start. My sneakers polished the hardwood floor, slithering in like a guarded snail. It was a hollow shell with the furniture and area rugs removed.

  Like it had an enigmatic spell, my head turned toward the staircase. A shiver drifted across my neck, not ready for that venture. Instead, I slogged to the kitchen. Just like the living room, the countertops were empty.

  My footsteps echoed making my way to the rear windows. Mom’s burgeoning perennial gardens were deteriorating. Overgrown, unkempt, and in the midst of decomposing. “Mom?”

  It was October twenty-fifth and I couldn’t find her. My legs carried me into the living room to the staircase. It was difficult trying not to disturb the wetness as I ascended. Too quiet.

  “Mom—where are you?” The second story hallway resembled a mirage, I squinted in the miasma. Something clawed at my heart, shredding it to pieces.

  In the dream, I stood at her bedroom. The door inched open.

  My breath clutched at the grisly sight.

  Caged by strong arms. Flogging my legs like an untamed ninja, thrashing in vain. My eyes caught the black boot with an obvious rent in the toe. I heard—“I’m not going to kill you. Not yet.”

  “You killed my mother! You killed my mother!”

  A hand covered my nose and mouth, then the words, “Stop fighting me.” And I stared at black boots before blacking out.

  Next thing I felt was the hard floor beneath me and someone saying, “Are you hurt?” An image receded in and out like a broken picture. My eyesight focused on Mom, still staring at me from her disjointed vantage point.

  “Leo?” A hand soaked in blood pushed hair from my forehead.

  Chapter 31

  My backbone arched off the floor, I choked on my tongue, gasping and coughing. Foul acid trampled my esophagus; I tossed to my side, and enabled to gag it down. Cool moisture collected on my skin. I swiped my forehead and inspected my fingers expecting to see blood, but found only shiny sweat. Atrocious realization struck like a lightning bolt—was it the same man? The man who attacked me in the attic and Mom’s killer? Same voice, same words, same pressure to make me faint.

  Suddenly, sheathed in a patch of golden illumination I gazed into the bedroom. The horrific memory churned and dispersed into a hailstorm of color. Coalescing radiance manufactured into her spitting image. “Mom—” I don’t know if I talked out loud.

  She was truly angelic, fashioning a heartfelt smile. Her arms beckoned me and then crossed over her heart. “Leo, I love you. Be careful.” Mom walked or floated toward me, then her diaphanous manifestation evaporated like a wisp of wind.

  Images of my dream dissipated as I crept to my hands and knees.

  Drained of strength, I tottered toward the stairwell. My quivering fingers clasped the railing and my shoulder braced the wall, scraping downward. Groping for the front door handle I lurched onto the porch.

  I felt better after drinking in fresh air. Somewhat steady, my eyes passed over the Court for a man wearing combat boots. Why, I didn’t know, it felt like the thing to do. Of course, the road was abandoned. I headed for Westgate.

  Once I hit the main drag, vehicles swished by, going home from a day of work. Weak and broken, my brain was piecemeal and refused to process my phantom vision. My hungry stomach grumbled and it took longer than normal to hike home.

  Lumbering into the kitchen I strung the key on the peg where it belonged. Then I hurled the broken penlight into the trash and unloaded my pockets, including Detective Dyl’s business card. My eyes adhered on his name: Detective Mark Dyl. Should I call him? I was interrupted by a bold and insistent gurgling belly. Foodies first. Lots of foodies.

  I stuffed whatever was eatable into my grub hole: Cold chicken, a banana, cookies. Whether from being physically beaten
or reliving the worst day of my life, I was ravenous. After a resounding burp and feeling somewhat quenched, I tread into the basement.

  It had been a while since rifling through boxes the movers sent over from our old house. There had to be some sort of clue the police had overlooked. Mom had been an English teacher, and I remember journals, lots of journals.

  This house had a crawlspace where Dad stowed particular boxes. Pulling on the drawstring, the fluorescent light showered the space. There, stashed to be forgotten, Mom’s life on Earth, four corrugated boxes.

  I tugged one of the box flaps. Her sweet perfume enveloped the small enclosure. My nostrils flared, breathing in. Then, shoveling my arms into her clothing, I squashed the material to my face, inhaling her essence.

  I went to the next box and then the next, looking for something—anything that would bring me closer to the truth. After accruing a substantial clutter, I finally hit pay dirt. Composition notebooks.

  Carting an armload, I stacked them on the concrete floor. Most of the notebooks were from students. These must’ve been special to her. I paged through, looking for what, I didn’t know. Frustration gripped my insides at the grueling method. The tower of books seemed to multiply and scrawling passages were an eyesore. Reading all this would take me forever, I moaned.

  “Leo, are you in the basement?”

  Dad. What should I tell him? Everything?

  He stomped on the stairs and seeing me in the middle of bedlam, looked confounded. “What’s going on? Why are your mother’s things all over the floor?”

  “I’m looking for clues.”

  “Clues? For what?”

  “Evidence, clues. Something the police must’ve overlooked to find who killed her.” I shoved the pile of notebooks. “There has to be—”

  “Stop it, Leo.” His fingers contracted, and then brushed his trousers. “You’ll only be disappointed.”

  “Her killer is out there. I need to try.” I scratched my shoulder bone. “Dad, there’s a picture of Mom in the Lucien mansion. In the attic.”

  “What did you say?” He bent his head sideways like he misunderstood.

  “Henry and I were in the Baskerville mansion. And in their attic is a photograph of Mom hanging on the wall and someone is putting flowers there.”

  His body weaved, ashen faced. I shot to my feet, afraid I might have to catch him.

  “C’mon, let’s go upstairs.” Linking my arm through his, together we shouldered into the kitchen. I thought about telling him about the boots, but it might be too much for him right now.

  Like as automaton, he reached for his cupboard of liquor and poured a healthy draft into a glass. Carrying the bottle, he then settled on a chair. He took a swig and then said, “What the hell are you and that…that idiot boy doing trespassing in that place?”

  “Dad, did you hear what I said?” I pinned a piece of hair behind my ear. “Mom’s picture is in the attic. Why would there be a picture of her there?”

  “How the hell do I know? Maybe Lucien’s ghost put it there.” He guzzled the remnants of honey colored bourbon.

  “And the flowers, too?”

  “You shouldn’t be snooping around.”

  “We need to tell the police.”

  His empty glass clunked on the table. “What will I tell them? My daughter and her dickwad boyfriend broke into the Baskerville mansion for a little play and—”

  “Dad, stop—Oh my God!” My eyes slapped to his face. “It’s not like that at all.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to think?” He poured another hefty dose and set the bottle next to him. “Are you still taking your meds?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Answer me.”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re using again, aren’t you? It’s that boy. He’s—”

  “No, Dad, no. Please listen to me.” Now desperate and competing for my sanity. “Everything I told you is true. And something else. I don’t want you to go ballistic.” I buffed the heels of my palms over my hips. “A guy attacked me in the attic this afternoon. I think it was the man who killed Mom. He’s still around. Then I went into our old house and…and I’m starting to remember what happened after I found her.” A conflict of emotions skittered over his face.

  “How could you do this to me? To me.” He sounded unbalanced, his brow arched. “After all I’ve done for you? I can’t go through this again.”

  “Let’s go. Right now,” I begged because he didn’t believe me. “You can see for yourself. The picture is there. I’m not hallucinating.” I wanted to say Henry saw it too, but it’d only summon filthy notions in his misconstrued brain.

  His eyes sliced to the window, blackness stared back. “I wouldn’t step one foot into that hell hole when it’s dark.”

  “We can use a flashlight.”

  He ingested a mouthful of booze and smacked his lips. It appeared to have a calming effect. “I have a better idea,” he proposed. “We’ll call Detective Dyl in the morning.” He poured another round and raised the glass like a salute. “Your ass is on the line with this one kid.”

  Chapter 32

  It seemed like the middle of the night when Dad nudged me. “Get dressed. We’re meeting the police on Lucien Court in fifteen minutes.”

  “Huh?” My head felt like a big fuzzy globe. “So early?”

  “I said get up and get dressed.” He toggled on the light switch. The glare deafening, stinging my eyeballs.

  We were in the car and driving to Lucien Court by six in the morning. Streetlights washed the avenue, still viable in the dusky dawn. I’d hoped he’d find a tad of credence in my story, though, an aura of tension bristled around him. Even maneuvering the steering wheel, he breathed heavy like it caused him immense energy.

  When he made the right hand turn onto the Court, we detected a squad car and the detective’s unmarked vehicle stationed on the street. Two uniformed police officers and the detective were already on the wraparound porch. Utilizing heavy-duty metal snips, they were in the process of cutting through the rusted chain links to the dual main doors.

  Detective Dyl turned and met my eyes with scrutiny. Over my shoulder, he gave Dad a curt nod.

  Dad addressed the police, “This could’ve waited until it got lighter. Leo…”

  The detective fired a hand, dismissing him. “We’ll talk later, Mr. Nelson. It’s good to check every lead.” His eyes flit to me.

  “We’re in,” said one of the policemen. Their flashlights skimmed the once grandiose foyer.

  “Leo, you saw something in the attic?” Detective Dyl asked.

  “Yes.” My voice sounded meek in the intimidating mansion.

  The two policemen progressed upward, Dad, me, and then Detective Dyl in the rear. A parade in motion arrested with the noise of a baby crying. The officer flashed his light along the second story hallway. “Is everyone hearing what I’m hearing?” he asked.

  “Keep going, Murphy, it’s only a figment of your imagination,” the detective said.

  “Some figment.” Office Murphy’s eyes broadened at his partner. “You hear it, don’t you?”

  He nodded, and protruded his chin, a sign to keep moving.

  Everyone crossed the threshold into the attic. Ancient floorboards squawked at their excessive weight. I pointed. “Over there.” While striding toward the room, a hand descended on my shoulder.

  “Wait here.” Detective Dyl borrowed the officer’s flashlight and started for the closed doorway. He turned the knob, the door appeared locked. “Are you sure this is the room?”

  “It was never locked before.”

  “You got this boys?” He waved over the policemen who appeared to be in their late twenties.

  First one and then the other administered a kick to the door, shattering hinges.

  “Good work.”

  Summoning a sense of complacency, I waited to hear confirmation. I hadn’t been hallucinating.

  “What the frig,” O
fficer Murphy said. “Is this some kind of a prank?”

  “Leo, come in here,” Detective Dyl ordered.

  My heart jump started, positive of a bed, stained sheets, Mom’s picture, and flowers. I skidded to a stop. “No—no—that wasn’t here.”

  Hanging from the rafter was Henry’s mannequin with dried duck’s blood. “He put that here last night. He knew I’d be back with the police,” I cried.

  Walking to where Mom’s photograph had once hung, I ironed my palm over the wood. I wanted to feel a nail or something to prove it was there. Then I looked to where the bed had abutted the wall. All gone.

  Detective Dyl knelt on the floor, closely observing, what—I didn’t know. “Hand me your light, Murphy,” he said to the officer, extending his arm.

  “Leo, Leo…” Dad shambled over and embraced my shoulders. “Are you alright?”

  “A freaky kid’s prank,” Officer Dobbs said. “That’s all.”

  “When are they going to demolish this haunted house anyway?” Officer Murphy studied the dummy with fascination. “That thing looks real. Whoever made it did a good job.”

  “Dad, you have to believe me. It was here. Mom’s picture, and the flowers. Yesterday the guy—”

  “Leo, that’s enough.” Dad gave me a tight shake. “You must’ve imagined everything. Another one of your realistic dreams.”

  “No.” I wasn’t schizophrenic. “Everything I said is true, not a delusion.”

  Assured that Henry could confirm my story, I was ready to throw him into the fire when the detective said, “What’d you say about a guy?”

  “It’s nothing.” Dad flaunted a trivial hand.

  My mouth slit at his duplicity, making me look like a juvenile delinquent or in need of the psyche ward. I pushed his comforting arms off my shoulders.

  Detective Dyl strode to the wall where I’d been feeling around. He shined the light over the area, reading the wood with his fingertips like Braille. “You’re off the clock now, right guys? Why don’t you head out?” he said to the officers.