She apologized the next week, when I caught her outside my door again.
“I’m sorry, Michael,” she said from the bench. “Times have been rough lately, and I acted rashly. I promise you that’s not what I’m like. I don’t get out much now.”
“It’s okay, Maria,” I said, putting a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t pull away, and for a moment, we were silent, until I heard another pair of footsteps coming up the stairs. She receded into her own apartment then, and I was left only with daydreams of her until the next time I saw her.
And when I did see her, those dreams were fulfilled.
I had been at the bars, and I don’t know if I could qualify for a drinking problem at the age of twenty-three, but that night, I was heavy with the symptoms. The stairs seemed to slant at a sixty-degree angle instead of up as I climbed them, and I don’t even remember unlocking my door.
But I do remember walking into my living area and seeing Maria on my couch. And I remember her finger rising to cover my lips as she pulled me down on top of her. It felt like we had been dating for years when we made love, and her intimacy was unrivaled by any other girl I have met.
It was after that night, as her presence touched my thoughts more often than I would be able to tell her without blushing, that the hair started. The hair was too dark for me, longer than my own, and a perfect match with hers. Sometimes I would neglect it, and it clogged the shower drain, begging to be acknowledged before I attended to it.
The time I slept with Maria was during my first month at my apartment complex. Now it was month six, and she had not entered my apartment since.
At least, not to my knowledge. And most definitely not because I did not want her to.
“Would you like to step in? Maybe have a drink?” I asked the next time I saw her in the hallway after I slept with her, and several times after that.
“I’m sorry, Michael. I’m busy tonight,” she would say. Or she would make up another excuse, that she had work or was not feeling well.
Maybe, like me, the sex was only average too.
Even though she never came back in, I felt like I was getting to know Maria. I imagined our lives together, and sometimes the details came vividly. I could imagine going to the local baseball games with her – already, I thought she would be a fan of the Sparrows, our team. The Honda she drove didn’t seem to suit her, and I thought about surprising her on Christmas in five years with something more sporty. I pushed these thoughts from my head, but there was one constant reminder of her presence.
The hair kept coming.
At first, I thought that maybe this was her thing, like some sort of fetish. My old girlfriend had liked wearing my shirts because of the way I smelled. Maybe Maria liked using my shower to use my shampoo. Weird, but I could dig it.
After a month of refusals, I decided that was not the case. I measured my shampoo usage like my parents used to mark liquor bottles in high school to make sure I was not raiding their stock, and none had gone missing.
Then, four months in, there were things I didn’t remember buying. I’m not partial to Corona, though I had bought her a six-pack in case she ever came over, and the bottles turned up in the back of my fridge long after I thought I had drunk them. The lime by their side, cut in half, was always fresh.
I almost never saw her in the hallway, and when I did, she always left before I could confront her.
And now, at six months, the notes started, in loopy practiced handwriting. Above her i’s she drew hearts, shading them in with ink.
They didn’t always make sense. Sometimes, they were as simple as grocery lists that I thought she had forgotten. Other times, they would be more suggestive.
Eggs, Milk, Corona, Chicken – M.
Or
I’m in the bedroom, naked, waiting for you to get home. Don’t even knock. Make it special. – M.
But she never was there. The notes were proof she was entering my apartment, and after a week, I found the courage, spurred by resentment, to knock at her door.
“Yes?” Maria said, opening it a crack so her dark eyes could stare out.
“How come you never come over when I’m home?” I asked.
“Michael, that’s…that’s very forward, don’t you think? You’ve already been quite forward with me on several occasions.”
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve only been nice to you, and you have no right to do this to me.”
“I don’t understand. But, Michael, I can’t ever come over to your room. Not ever,” she said. Seeing the confusion on my face, she undid the chain latch at the top of the door and let me inside.
“Michael, there’s something I should have told you a while ago. But I didn’t think it was necessary. I do think you’re cute, I really do.” She paused, then continued, “But I can’t ever be with you. Don’t think I wouldn’t want to. It’s been a year since I’ve been with a man.”
“But you—”
“Ah, don’t give me that ‘but you’re so beautiful’ line to get in my pants. It won’t work. Come here.”
She took a picture from on top of her counter, where it had been lying face down in the frame. Her face turned somber, and her voice cracked.
“This is the last picture my sister, Morgan, gave me before she died last year,” she said, her hand shaking. “She was in love with her boyfriend, and he left her after three years for some bitch at his work. She cried so hard on the way back she didn’t see the semi truck coming, crashing her brand new Mustang straight into it.”
I looked at the picture, and a shiver ran up my forearms.
The two women in the picture were nearly identical, so much so that they could have been twins. After a moment of squinting, I could see that Maria was on the right, and her sister, wearing a Sparrow’s jersey on the left, in front of a sports stadium.
In Morgan’s hand, there was a Corona with a lime.
Written in loopy handwriting, with a little filled-in heart above the “i,” was the message i love you, Maria – M.
Now Maria could no longer hold back the tears.
“I can’t leave here for the same reason I can’t be with you, Michael. I can’t let go. Your apartment is where she lived.”
The Tattoo
I turned eighteen this year – in May, the month that I graduated high school. By coincidence, the majority of my friends turned eighteen about that time. All throughout high school, we had celebrated “Birthday Month,” a time where one of our birthdays happened to fall on each of the weekends. When we turned sixteen, we each bought packs of cigarettes. At seventeen, we watched every R-rated movie in theaters, two times each. And at eighteen, we decided we would each be getting tattoos.
But I had a problem.
Of my three friends, I was the poorest – my parents had kicked me out a few months before when they found the vodka in my closet, and I could just barely afford to pay rent with the waiter job that I had picked up on nights and weekends. I’d managed to graduate high school with low marks – but I had graduated, which mattered to me, though I knew I wouldn’t be heading to college.
And now, my three other friends were leaving to start their futures.
“I think I’m going to get a benzene ring,” said Lily, the nerdy but cute Asian girl who hung out with us and probably had more potential than us all together, “behind my right ear. That way, my parents won’t see it under my hair.”
We were sitting in the back of Brent’s truck in the school parking lot, watching as the rest of the school let out. Brent was my best friend at the time, though he was planning on attending school three states away.
“Aw, that’d be so cute,” said Mary, clinging to Lily’s shoulder, “And I think I’ll get a Bible verse right here. Something about purity.” She gestured to her ribcage, and Brent snorted. The previous year, his relationship with Mary had come to an end when she cheated on him with two other guys. They’d made up, and she’d cleaned up her act, but her reputation remained.
“And
I’ll get a globe,” Brent said. “Maybe on my chest. I want to travel, you know? Figure I’ll do some sort of study abroad program at Uni. What about you, Copi?”
“Uh, I’m not sure yet,” I answered, staring at the pavement below. I considered asking them for money, but my face turned red at the thought, and I already owed Brent a hundred dollars that he had pretended to forget about. “I think I’ll have to think on it.”
“Well, decide quick!” said Mary. “We’re going next Friday!”
By my estimations, I’d be able to save up at least two hundred dollars by then, but it’d be tough. I’d be eating ramen for sure and picking up some extra shifts serving tables. It would be worth it, though – after all, I wouldn’t be seeing them for quite some time.
But that night when I went in to work, my name wasn’t on the schedule for the next week. In fact, no names were on the schedule – Burnette’s Bistro had recently experienced some competition from an Applebee’s that opened across the street, and Burnette’s Bistro was now shut down.
So I was officially broke. By the time Friday came, I had turned in applications for several new server jobs, though none had answered yet. So I skipped lunch and went to the parlor that afternoon and spoke with the artist.
“What can I do to help?” he asked when I entered the empty shop, his eyes narrowing. I looked young for my age, and I was just barely old enough to enter the shop alone.
“I just turned eighteen and want a tattoo. I was wondering, though; I’m a little short on cash – can I pay you later?”
The artist snorted, crossing thick arms across his chest. “No cash, no art. Read the sign, boy. I’m not working for free.”
“Don’t you think we could work something out? It doesn’t have to be anything big or nice. Come on, man, please?”
“Out! And come back when you have cash, or don’t come back at all.”
“Damnit,” I said as the door shut behind me and kicked the fire hydrant outside the shop, sending pain up through my toe.
“Bit of an ass, isn’t he?” came a voice from behind and I turned, seeing a man standing on the sidewalk and leaning against the building, a binder under his arm.
“Yeah,” I muttered, starting to walk away, but his next words stopped me.
“You know, I’m trying to open my own shop. And I’ve got pictures of my own art that you can look at. It’s, well, it’s a bit different, so I’m looking for someone to try it out on. Maybe advertise it a bit for me, show it off a bit. And I’ll do it for free.”
“Free?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow.
“Free.”
“Let’s see those pictures.”
He handed me the binder, and I opened it, viewing them. There were ten or so, and they were good. Heck, they were great. The type of art that I should be paying heavily for.
“Thoughts?” he said, waiting.
“I’m in,” I answered. “But what’s the catch?”
“I just want my talent to come to life,” he said with a smile. “It’s hard to get started in the industry. So tonight, then? You can meet me here.”
“Deal,” I answered, and that night, I returned with my friends.
“Aren’t you coming in, Copi?” said Brent, holding the door to the shop.
“I, uh, I got my own guy. Scheduled some personal art, you know. I’ll meet you guys after.”
“Sure, man,” said Brent. “But we were supposed to do this together.”
Already I could hear the voices of Lily and Mary from inside as they started talking to the artist, and I withdrew slightly so that I wouldn’t be visible through the window.
“Trust me, man, it’ll be cool. I want to surprise you guys.”
“Whatever you say,” answered Brent, and he walked inside, holding a sketch of the globe that he wanted for his own tattoo.
I waited outside, and a few moments later, the man from earlier appeared, touching my shoulder from behind.
“Ready?” he said, and I nodded, following him down the street. Night had begun to fall, and his shadow melded with the dark as he tucked into a side alley and led me down some stairs. And there we came to a door with a fresh sign over it, and he led me inside.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “I haven’t had much time to set up shop.”
“Apparently,” I answered, looking about the room. There was a chair, some equipment, and three hanging lightbulbs, but little else. A few boxes in the back, still packed and resting on concrete soaked with water leaking through the foundation. And a ceiling tile was cracked next to them, where it had fallen to the floor.
“Go ahead and take a seat,” the man said, and I hesitated. Then I swallowed and took the chair. It was free. I couldn’t complain about free. And I didn’t want to be the only one of my friends without a tattoo.
“Alright, this will take a bit. I’ll need you to stay still,” he said. “How does your lower shoulder blade work? I have a design in mind, if you will. Something special.”
“That works,” I said and removed my shirt. And he began, the buzzing filling my ears as I gritted my teeth. When he finished, he held up a mirror for me, and I looked at the work.
Damn, I was happy. And damn, did it look good.
It was a design of sorts, a looping that turned in upon itself, with strands that lay unfinished as the tattoo fell away. “In case you ever want to expand it,” he said, pointing to them. “Free of charge, since you’re my first customer. And I think you’ll find they’re quite addictive.”
Then he led me back to the surface, and to the original shop, where Brent was already waiting outside.
“Thanks,” I said, turning. But the man was already walking away in the direction of his shop, his form a shadow in the night.
Brent lifted his shirt when I approached, showing me the patch covering his own tattoo, though I could see the globe through it.
“Came out sweet, man. Better than I thought.”
Then Mary and Lily came out of the shop, each with their own patches.
“I hear you have a surprise for us, Copi,” said Lily. “Go on, let’s see it.”
So I turned and lifted my own shirt. For a second, I heard silence, and I held my breath. Then Brent spoke, his voice drawn out.
“Shit, man. How much did you pay for that? You know you still owe me a hundred dollars, right?”
I laughed and turned to see their eyes wide and eyebrows raised. Mary’s mouth was open, and Brent shook his head.
We walked home together, and when I woke up the next morning, the tattoo was sore. Not just in the area applied, but above it too. And when I looked in the mirror, it was just a tad higher than I remembered.
But that was months ago, and now my friends are gone. I work at the Applebee’s that shut down Burnette’s Bistro as a bartender full time now, for lunch and dinner shifts both. And I eat there all the time, considering the hefty discount – sometimes having three or four meals throughout the day. It’s not a health problem yet, though, since I’m losing weight, not gaining it. Must be all the extra work I’m doing.
I’ve gotten a few new tattoos since my friends left, all connected with my first one. The problem with having a lazy manager is I walk home drunk. Sometimes, I even black out, with the entire last hour of my shift a blur. And my tattoo artist was right; tattoos are addictive – during those nights, I must have stumbled back into his parlor and had more done. I can’t remember, but I’d know when I woke up with sore skin. They were still free, though, since I never lost any cash, so I saw no problem with it. Plus the new tattoos were just as impressive as the first, and he’d even touched up the first a bit. Made the lines a bit darker, more pronounced.
But it became a problem once my entire back was covered, and the ink started spreading to my arms. The other tattoos were of a wide variety of styles too; some colored, some not, some pictures, and some designs. All expertly drawn, but it was getting to be too much.
“Damnit,” I said one morning, glancing at my bi
cep. It stung, and there was a copy of my original tattoo, the swirls and lines staring back up at me. So I left home, and I walked to the parlor – even though it had been months before, I still knew the way. But no one answered when I knocked on the door, so I entered and looked around the inside.
It was empty – the chair was gone, along with the equipment. The hanging light bulbs were removed, a few additional ceiling tiles had fallen through, and a layer of dust coated the floor. I stood there, frowning, looking for life where there was none. But on the floor there was still the mirror from my first visit, so I picked it up and inspected my back to see if there was anything new.
I choked, and shivers ran down my spine when I looked into the glass. For my original tattoo had not been copied on my back. It had been moved there.
That night, I did what I did whenever I was stressed. I ate to curb my hunger, and I drank to nurture my alcoholism. Heavily.
The next day, I woke up to a stinging sensation and cursed. There, on my left bicep, was a picture of a swastika, connected by thin lines to the tattoo network of my back.
I called in sick that day, and I turned on the television. I shook on my couch and couldn’t focus as I flipped through the channels. I considered calling my parents, but they’d think I was just trying to get money. And I considered calling my friends, but they’d think I was going crazy. So I settled on the news, something I almost never watched. And I learned about the incident the night before.
“The scene before you has been blurred out,” said the blonde reporter, standing in front of a gas station, “due to its graphic nature. Experts are still trying to discern what occurred here last night, though it is currently being attributed to some sort of wild animal yet to be identified. The victim’s body is covered in lacerations, as if caused by wires of some sort, the wounds culminating above his chest where the skin was ripped clear. And here is the footage.”
Tales of the Sinister: Twelve Terrifying Stories Page 5
