Haunted Melody: A Ghost Story

by Alyson Santos

  Drip.

  Drip.

  I watch the dots smack the surface and shatter into ordered specks of deep red. That serial killer would have loved this sink. What color would it be when he finished with it?

  Drip.

  Splat.

  Drip.

  Splat.

  Whoosh.

  I straighten. The hell? Afraid to look, I clench my eyes shut and remain still. My ears strain for another clue, and when they come up empty, I have no choice. The only thing worse than being stalked is not acknowledging it. With a deep breath, I spin around—and immediately wish I hadn’t. My heart hammers at the shadowy figure watching me from the old boiler.

  “You…” I whisper. I back away from the sink, the blood now dripping down my cheeks and landing on my bare chest. “What do you want?” Oh god, is she going to tear at my head again? Not now. I can’t take that right now.

  Still she hovers, waiting, watching. I can’t make out details other than the flickering shadow of her essence. Just enough to know she’s there, tracking me. Warning me that at any second she could be centimeters away, filling my nose with roses and my brain with horrific darkness.

  The shadow moves into full view, hurling the deafening shrieks at me. I clasp my hands over my ears, gaze glued to her ragged silhouette thanks to the sunlight muddying the space around us. Without warning she starts sliding forward. I stumble back. She lurches forward. I go back. Closer. Farther. Oh, god.

  “What do you want?” I cry out. Two more lunges back, and I end up crashing against the doorframe. The blow leaves me dazed. I fall to the floor, splayed out as the perfect victim. Groaning, I have no choice but to let her come. I have nothing left.

  “Just kill me this time. Please.” Those words are mine, but I don’t recognize the tone. Total defeat. The speaker is annihilated human breath.

  “Raaaaaah.”

  “Please! Just...”

  “Raaaaaah.”

  Roses wash over me as I’m fastened to the floor again. This time I feel her weight and the scratch of her dress on my bare skin. Her shadowed countenance consumes my vision, swirling and shrieking with that nothingness, and I search for the last drawing in my memory: the face with the scream. Visions. Flashes of pain. That’s what I’d found last time, right? When I really let myself look?

  Somehow I break through the terror enough to open my eyes and see. Really see what’s happening in that shrieking, terrifying mass.

  Sinclair.

  My joints lock. Blood freezes in my veins. Sinclair? Why would Grave Lady hold images of Sinclair?

  “Raaaaaah.”

  My brain shrivels from the screaming. Pounds and shrinks in agonizing compressions every time she opens her mouth.

  I hear my own screams from the pain as I fight the paralysis to cover my ears. This only seems to anger her more. My arms betray me and snap to my sides as if being wrenched by a powerful machine. I writhe against its hold, struggling to free them again.

  “Raaaaaah.”

  “I hear you! Just tell me—”

  I can’t even scream as my body goes rigid and arcs off the floor. My eyes roll back into darkness when her claws enter my head.

  Sinclair.

  Bev.

  Mrs. Thompson.

  And every other vision that’s haunted me since I’ve started paying for my past. They rush and spin through my mind at breakneck speed. Over and over in a dizzying circus of past nightmares.

  My heart slams against my ribs. My breathing becomes stilted and uneven. I’m going to die this time. I know it. This is the end. Grave Lady is the final punishment for my sins, and I—

  Rachel.

  The weight lifts. The light returns. No more roses, no more pain. Suddenly it’s just I, Milo Marchesi alone on a cold, dirt floor.

  Chapter Four:

  Visions

  Her name is Rachel. Grave Lady is Rachel. Who the hell is Rachel?

  And how does she know so much about me?

  That question has spun in a loop through my mind since her latest attack. I’ve done my best to keep my torment private, especially once Addie Rose came back down for bed. A day later, I still have no answers.

  I tried drawing again, but even that window is gone. I’m back to sketching the random shit in my head. All boring, all maddeningly conscious and unhelpful.

  Rachel.

  I don’t remember a single Rachel from my past. At least, none that would explain the level of Grave Lady torture. Her punishment makes the punitive visions I suffer seem like normal, human migraines. There are medications for those. Nothing could counter the violence of Grave Lady.

  Rachel, I mean.

  Rachel.

  “Uncle Milo!” Addie Rose’s whining brings me back to the present and my woeful lack of coloring skills.

  “Sorry, squirt.” I glance down and notice I’ve shaded half the picture of a squirrel gathering nuts below a tree. Maybe it’s a late evening shadow?

  I put down the black crayon before it does more damage and grab a green one.

  “That’s better. Trees should be green not black,” she says.

  I offer a salute and get cozy with the green. Trees should be green. I can’t even remember the childhood innocence when should and is were the same. All it takes is a father like Marty Marchesi to expose the lie.

  “Did you fight with Roy? Lena told Roy he was mean.”

  “Yes. But I shouldn’t have.”

  “Is that why your face is all purply?”

  A smile spreads over my cracked lips. “Yeah but I’m okay.”

  “It doesn’t hurt?”

  “Not really.”

  It’s not even a lie. Not compared to the wounds she can’t see.

  “I finished.”

  She drops her crayon with a triumphant grin and spins the page toward me. “It’s a rainbow!”

  I wince and fly back.

  “Uncle Milo?”

  Head shaking, blood pounding through my body, I barely hear her whimpering.

  “You don’t like it? I made it for you.”

  She pushes it closer, and I inch away.

  “Close the book,” I rasp out. “Close it.”

  Addie Rose is crying as she obeys.

  I clench my eyes shut, trying to regain my breath. Does she really see a fucking rainbow?

  Breathe, Milo.

  “Do you…” More air. I need more. “Would you like to see if Lena wants to color now?” I manage. “Hey, come here.”

  Her tears gut me, and I pull her to my chest.

  “You don’t like my picture.”

  “Of course I do,” I lie. “I was just… thought I saw a spider. A rainbow, huh?”

  She nods through her sobs. “Spiders are scary.”

  “They sure are. Okay, well, here. Take my book with you and I’ll keep yours with the rainbow. Sound good?”

  “But Lena needs a book too. Here, this is yours—”

  “No!” I say, grabbing the book from her hands as she tears the page. “I mean, it might ruin the picture,” I correct quickly. Still not sure if she’s buying any of this, but the tears are starting to dry on her cheeks. Her look is definitely more confused than hurt now. I can live with that.

  I gather up the crayons and drop them back into the box. “I bet Lena would love to color the one with the kittens. She loves kittens.”

  “Ooh! Maybe we can color it together! I love kittens too.”

  “Perfect.”

  Once I’m alone, I gather strength and reach for the coloring book Addie Rose left behind. Leafing through the pages, I steady my breathing. Lollipop forest, dancing unicorn, herd of (are those walking ice cream cones?), candy cane fields, and… wait.

  I squint at the page, my lungs now compressing into a new kind of panic. A rainbow?

  Yes. There in front me, sculpted with the precision of a child who cares deeply about staying within the lines, are the distinctive arcs of a rainbow. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. She
even got the order right. ROY G BIV, right? Roy—ha. Bev?

  I shake away the new images and close the book.

  “What do you want, Rachel?” I mutter to myself. “And leave Addie the hell out of this.”

  Roy’s fist is twice its size when it flies at my face, connecting with a hard thud that pushes me back. In the movies it’s a clapping sound when flesh meets flesh, but that’s not the real ambiance of violence. Real violence is dull and thick, loud from the rumble of grunts and heavy breathing. Real violence is also slow and ugly. The pretty karate kicks are for the actors; real fighting is done on the ground where there’s no room for style points.

  Roy jumps on top, straddling me as he bears down. Lena screams in the background, begging me to stop. Me! As if I’m the problem. Maybe I am, since it’s my punishment she fears.

  His fists are boulders against my cheeks, but he’s tired. He may have the advantage, but I have the experience and endurance. I absorb as much as I can with my forearms, calm as I watch for an opening. I notice the pattern quickly. Jab, cross, right hook.

  Jab. I groan as it lands.

  Cross. This one I reduce to a glancing blow.

  The right hook catches me square again, but as he adjusts his balance, I lunge for his midsection, toppling him over with a blow to the solar plexus. The move startles him and soon I’m the one on top, driving down with a precision amateurs like Roy can only dream about. Fighting is as much knowing how to hit as how to get hit. That’s why the last thing Roy Jacobs should have done was challenge the universe’s favorite punching bag.

  The vision doesn’t fade until the action reaches Roy’s broken nose this time, longer than the third replay, far longer than the first. How many until I’ve paid for this latest transgression? It’s surreal reliving an event that happened a day before. No wonder Lena was screaming for me to stop. I’m just glad I’m alone for the fallout.

  My throat is parched, my body aching all over. Whether it’s from the recent fight or the visions that followed, I have no idea. All I know is that nothing seems as important as getting to the sink right now.

  I drag myself along the floor, still dark with blood. Mine and Roy’s, I guess, but mostly mine since I was the one held there by the visions long after the violence should have ended. Is he suffering the same fate upstairs? Probably not, which only angers me more. No one seems to suffer these visions like I do.

  The sink looms above me, promising temporary relief. A brush of a reprieve is enough for now. Grasping the top edge, I bite down hard on my own teeth to pull myself up. Jaw clenched and nausea rushing in waves through my stomach, I manage to lean over the edge and reach the handle.

  Cold water crashes against my skin. With a satisfied shiver, I splash another handful of it from the faucet. Funny how cold burns. Which is the real danger to survival? Fire or ice?

  The next spray hits my chest which still aches from Grave Lady’s assault. Yesterday was a freaking MMA tournament down here. I nearly smirk as I reach for the small bar of soap on the ledge.

  “There’s a bathtub upstairs, you know.”

  I turn at the voice, almost dropping the soap. Lena’s smile grows, and I swallow the curse rising in my throat. With the water running, I hadn’t heard her footsteps on the stairs. Not good that it’s so easy for someone to sneak up on me. Her smile fades as she studies my bare chest. I follow her gaze down to the ugly bruises and wince at what they must look like to her.

  “Those are from the fight with Roy?” she asks, approaching me.

  “Yes.” Another lie, of course. I’ve been spreading lots of those recently. I just hope she doesn’t notice how different they look from the marks on my face. My shirt is too far away to help at the moment, and suddenly I have a new problem: Lena.

  I’ve suspected it for a while, even done my best to deflect it. She may think I’m her prince but I know how attractive dragons can be. Golden Boy. Prince Charming. The residents of this house couldn’t have it more wrong. It’d be funny if it weren’t so fucking dismal. No, there is nothing about connecting with me that will help her personal journey. She won’t be here long, and I refuse to be responsible for extending her stay no matter how much she thinks she wants my venom.

  “Here, let me help,” she says, gently running her fingers over my skin. “Is it true you used to be a musician? Roy said you were in a band.”

  “A long time ago.”

  “Couldn’t have been that long.”

  An eternity.

  “Where’s Addie Rose?” I ask, ducking away from her tempting fingers. When’s the last time I’ve been touched like that, with desire born of purity and trust? Ever? No. Because monsters don’t feel the same way to humans. Their skin bristles and cuts anyone who comes close.

  “Milo, wait!”

  I stumble towards my room, trying to erase the sudden longing. The human longing for love. Companionship. The beautiful side of living I never earned and will never deserve. I could tell her everything now. Break the rules and share the gory details of my penance. One glimpse of Bev and—

  “Ah.” I double over. Not again! What the hell is going—“Fuck!”

  “Milo!”

  I can’t hear anything else as the violence of this vision shoves me to my knees. My hands loop around my head, pulling through my hair in an instinctive fight against the agony. I fall to the floor, screaming against the pain. Why why why why…

  I’ve never trusted the guy. Never liked him. Never believed any of the shit things he said. No one does, really, but if you want to get out of Dump Town he’s the only ticket. The Gatekeeper they call him. In and out. I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want out.

  I hate how he’s looking at me now, though. Santino said it’s the only way, and after today, I know he’s right. If The Gatekeeper’s interested, you’re golden. If he’s not, you might as well buy a plot in the town cemetery. You’re never leaving this dump.

  I thought he meant if the man was interested in my music.

  “How old are you?” The Gatekeeper asks, his gaze moving over my body.

  “Eighteen.”

  He nods and flicks a look to the guy beside him. There’s nothing I like about that dude either.

  “And you have no experience?”

  “Some.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ve played a few local gigs.”

  “Like?”

  The fire inside starts to burn at his clear taunt. He knows I wouldn’t be here if I had a good answer to that question.

  “Nothing big.”

  He grunts with a satisfied smirk. “Figured.” He ogles me again before exchanging another long look with his friend. The friend’s nod sends chills over my skin.

  “Tell you what, if you’re serious about making it in this business, you come back here tonight.” He glances at the rest of my band standing behind me. “Alone.”

  I swallow hard at the darkness in his gaze. I thought I knew evil. I thought stealing a woman’s purse and watching your father smash her brains on the floor was the worst kind of hell. Then he goes to prison and you learn there are worse places. Worse people than the demons who run it. You learn there are moments like this. Crossroads that are anything but. Choices that aren’t but will haunt you anyway. People like—

  “Just ask for Sinclair.”

  Air blasts back into my lungs when I come to. Tears stream down my cheeks as Lena shoves the bucket toward me. I don’t know how many times I puke, how much time passes before I can straighten and separate from my own filth. I hate that she’s here, pushing my hair back from my face like I deserve it. If I had the strength I’d shove her away. Instead, I let her support my weight down to the blankets.

  I fall to my back and stare up at the slotted ceiling. This one was new. Special in its trauma and the graphic way it depicted one of the sins against me, not the other way around. I bolt up and claw for the bucket again, coughing out more invisible poison.

  Lena lowers herself behind me and pulls
me to her chest. I shouldn’t allow it but god how can I not? The tears don’t let go. No, they’re not finite like stomach acid and partially digested food. Tears are eternal. There’s never an assurance that they have to let go. Tears don’t have to do anything except stain your cheeks with evidence you fight so damn hard to hide. Traitors, that’s what they are.

  “It’s getting worse,” she whispers into the silence.

  I nod, still gasping in air at uneven clips.

  “Why are they getting worse?”

  Is she angry? I didn’t think her capable of the emotion. See what I do to people?

  “I don’t know.” The words grate out as a croak. I’m not even lying for once. I don’t. I don’t know why the rules are shattering now. Why, after suddenly starting to hope I’d be cured of my sickness, it’d come back with such a brute force. Why now?

  Rachel. It started when Grave Lady returned. Is this ghost of my present connected to the ghosts of my past?

  But I can’t remember! No matter how many times I rake over the simmering coals of my memories, no young woman named Rachel comes forward for vengeance. Could she be one of the nameless, faceless groupies I used and threw away to drown out my darkness?

  A cold sweat breaks over my skin at a new thought. What was my mother’s name again? Was it Rachel? No. My muscles start to relax. Sarah. My mother was Sarah for the couple of years she was my mother. My sister, Olivia before she ran off. So then—

  A tickle flares along my collarbone, ending my concentration. I close my eyes, absorbing the strange touch.

  “It’s not fair,” Lena says quietly. “No one deserves this.”

  I don’t know if I agree. A second ago sure, but now, safe from the horror, my mind is cloudy again. Maybe I did? Well, do, I guess since the visions are still able to shake my existence to its core.

  “How can I help, Milo? Just tell me what to do.”

  “There might be one thing.” I close my eyes, heart already shattering into a thousand pieces. How do you ask someone to take away the only good thing you’ve ever had?

  “Anything. Just say it,” she whispers against my hair.