by Brian Bakos
22. Unsentimental Journey
It is night. Frank is walking up the path to his own back door. A thin mist chills the air at ground level, but the sky is clear, admitting bright moonlight to the world below. The lawn chairs on the patio cast harsh shadows, like those of tombstones. The heavy scent of roses hangs in the air.
He enters the house and closes the door behind him. It slams with a resounding Crash! that echoes right down to the basement where it rattles the bottles in the wine cabinet.
Damn! he thinks. Guess I don’t know my own strength.
The house is dim, sepulchral, the lights don’t work. Frank moves across the broad expanse of the ground floor toward the staircase lurking in the gloom. The staircase seems unnaturally wide and long. He could drive his big SUV up it with room to spare, even a hearse turned sideways could make the journey.
He mounts the stairs, feeling the balustrade slither beneath his hand like a venomous snake. The ascent seems interminable, but finally the dim circle of light at the top gets larger and closer. He passes into it.
Frank is standing in the second floor hallway now. He begins walking toward his home office. On his right is the closed door to Laila’s private room. It is crisscrossed with yellow tape, like a crime scene, and a placard stuck to it reads:
CAUTION
PULSE UV LIGHT
DO NOT ENTER
What the hell?
Down the hall on his left, the door to the master bedroom gapes open, revealing its dark, tomb-like interior. Frank shudders at the sight. He enters his office and closes the door quietly behind him. After a moment’s hesitation, he locks it. He ensconces himself in the chair behind the massive oak desk. The leather feels clammy against his skin. The sight of his jacket hanging from a hook in a suspicious attitude gives him a momentary start.
On the wall, the monitor screen for the security system hangs dark and lifeless. It is apparently out of order.
“Damn security alarm company!” Franks says. “I’ll give them a piece of my mind.”
Time drifts past in the eerie surroundings, Frank starts to feel uneasy. He realizes that he is utterly alone in the house – utterly alone in his life. He gropes for the bottle of bourbon that he thinks must be under the chair, but can’t find it.
“I could sure use a cigar,” he laments.
Suddenly, the monitoring screen flickers into life, revealing views from every security camera installed on the property. Frank does not look too closely at the screen for fear of what he might see within it. A piercing note begins shrieking, then every noisemaker in the house starts up – the doorbells, the smoke alarms, the buzzer on the stove. The racket continues for nearly a minute before it abruptly halts.
Then the clanking of a heavy chain issues from the basement. It drags over the cabinet of wine bottles, knocking it over to a chorus of shattering glass. The door to the basement booms open.
“I get it,” Frank says. “This is a dream!”
He takes comfort in this thought, but his composure begins to fray as he hears the chain dragging up the basement stairs, then across the ground floor and onto the second floor staircase. He considers getting his 9 mm pistol out of the nightstand, but can’t tolerate the idea of entering the funereal master bedroom.
So he just waits as the steps draw nearer and nearer ...
A ghastly figure enters the office, materializing in front of the closed door. It is tall and gaunt, with fiercely staring eyes. A heavy chain is wrapped around its waist and over its shoulders. An infernal atmosphere surrounds the intruder, tousling its hair with waves of heat.
“Who the hell are you?” Frank asks.
“Better to ask who I was,” the figure replies in a hollow voice that seems to originate from far away.
“All right,” Frank says. “Who the hell were you?”
“Ahhh ‘hell’ – what an appropriate word to describe my plight,” the apparition says. “In this world, I was known as Alfred McIntyre.”
“Of course, I recognize you now!” Frank says, “I haven’t seen you since the banquet ...”
He gulps, there’s a good reason he hasn’t seen Alfred McIntyre for such a long time. The guy died ten years ago, under very suspicious circumstances.
“How have you been, Alfred?” he asks awkwardly.
The specter gives Frank an annoyed glower. “How do I look to you, Armstrong?”
“I must admit you truly look like crap ... no offense intended,” Frank says.
He tries to make as light of the situation as possible, but terror is creeping up his spine by the moment.
“S-so, what business brings you here?” he asks.
“To warn you away from the mistakes I have made,” the ghost of Alfred McIntyre says. “I did not value the important people in my life; I took their love for granted; money and power were all that mattered to me.”
“I know what you’re talking about,” Frank murmurs.
“You will be haunted by three spirits tonight,” intones the shade of Alfred McIntyre.
“I think I’d rather not,” Frank replies.
“Ah, but they’re coming ... coming,” the shade says. “Without their visits you cannot hope to avoid taking the path of ruin that I have trod.”
Alfred is backing toward the window now. It abruptly flies open, admitting chill night air along with the shrieks and wails of damned souls ...
$$$
“No! No!”
Frank struggled against the blanket as if it were a burial shroud trying to strangle him. He flung it aside and sat bolt upright in the hospital bed, eyes wide and frightened. He was burning up and drenched with sweat.
“Ohhh... thank God that’s over!”
He’d been foolish not to undress himself for bed. He’d become badly overheated by his street clothes and the blanket. This was always a recipe for nightmares, or ‘heat dreams,’ as Frank had come to designate them.
The room was dark and somber around him, with moonlight filtering through the window. The atmosphere was not unlike the phantom office of his nightmare. He headed into the bathroom and flicked on the bright overhead. He began splashing water onto his face and neck.
Get a grip, Frank, it was only a dream.
He studied his haggard face in the mirror. Behind him, blocking the bathroom doorway, he saw a tall figure shrouded in a deep, black robe concealing its face and form and leaving nothing visible except for a hand stretching toward him. Were it not for this ghastly, ivory pale hand, it would be difficult to detach the figure from the darkness by which it was surrounded.
It spoke in a sonorous voice: “I am the ghost of – ”
“Enough already!” Frank growled. “I get the picture.”
The specter vanished with a soft pop! and never bothered Frank again.
