by P. J. Burgy
P.J. Burgy
Hello, Martin
Draca Publishing 2021
Copyright © 2021 by P.J. Burgy
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-7365897-8-6
Thank you to my family and friends for all of your support.
Chapter 1
Lizzie Clay adjusted her black shirt where it tucked into her khaki pants and fixed her crooked necklace. She made sure her car doors were locked – trying each handle a few times – before patting her pockets for her keys and wallet. Her purse was hidden on the passenger seat floor under an ugly old jacket she never wore.
The chilly air tugged at her lungs as she jogged from her car, parked in the small lot next to the bookstore, and made the sharp left onto the sidewalk. At 4 PM in December the streetlamps had kicked on to push back the night, and the flurries the weatherman had predicted fell lazily from above.
Across the street, the swarthy deli owner threw down salt at his storefront. He paused and waved at Lizzie. She waved back, turning her head to avoid conversation, and charged toward the bookstore with the big, handmade sign, ‘Kat’s Corner’.
The front window had her macabre paintings on display – six of them – and each stood on easels above a collection of new releases crammed in to fill the space. ‘Local artist, Lizzie Clay – see within!’ appeared in fine calligraphy on a plaque placed neatly in front of one of the more macabre pieces.
She pushed open the front door, the tinkling bell announcing her arrival. “Here I am! I’m so sorry! I had to get gas on the way.”
Kate looked up from behind the counter. “Thank God. It was absolute chaos in here.”
The air smelled like old books, the aisles empty and the lights a warm yellow in the little store. Old wooden shelves lined the walls and ran parallel to the front counter, each filled with books – most old and a few new. The front table glittered with marbles, stones, candles, and small racks of local craft items for sale. Lizzie’s book, ‘Broken Quasar; Dark Space’, had been propped up front and center next to some of her tiny, 4×4 painted plaques. ‘Local author, Lizzie Clay’ read on another plaque in front of it.
“Oh. I see that.” Lizzie reached up and pushed some of her wavy brown hair away from her face. She’d missed huge chunks when she’d put her hair-tie in earlier. Joining Kate behind the counter, she sighed and redid her ponytail. “Still, I’m sorry. Stupid Tommy. He used the car for work last night and was supposed to gas her up. Of course, he didn’t… So, I was running on ‘E’ when I left the house.”
“Stupid Tommy,” Kate echoed. She glanced over the rims of her glasses, her gray eyes piercing. “I figured he was to blame. Did you want some tea?”
“That’d be nice.”
Kate nodded and floated around the counter to the tiny break room to the left. Her hair, bright white, flowed freely down her shoulders. She always dressed in dark colors, her long shirt black and red with a maroon sash around the waist. With a hard to guess age – she could have been forty with white hair or sixty with amazing genes – Kate puzzled Lizzie with her dry sarcasm and impressed her with firm confidence; Kate was not a woman to be trifled with.
Katherine Grimes had hired Lizzie right away when she’d applied for the part-time gig at the store. All she needed was a clerk, someone else to help around the store and run the register, handle inventory, and they’d hit it off immediately. Lizzie remembered Kate’s patient, albeit amused little smirk, when she’d rambled about her art and writing.
And then Kate had offered to put Lizzie’s work out there, on the shelves and on display for sale…
It almost made the $10.50 an hour worthwhile. True, Lizzie only worked twenty hours a week as that was all Kate could afford to give her, but she liked her job, and she liked her boss. Even if Kate could blurt out harsh, blunt truths that hit hard, Lizzie knew it was meant to be helpful, not hurtful.
Lizzie straightened the table and studied her book cover. She should have scooched the title to the right a little more.
Kate floated back to the counter, holding two delicate cups of steaming tea. “At least he’s working. For now.”
“Oh, yeah,” Lizzie said, accepting one of the cups. She swept around the counter again. “Over at the hardware store. Bill Hanson hired him because of me. He was friends with my Dad, and felt sorry for-”
“He’ll fire him for sure without a lick of pity within the month. You’d best keep asking around since your man can’t seem to do it on his own.” Kate leaned on the back wall, clasping her cup with both hands, her many rings glittering on her long, slender fingers. “He’ll have a reputation by then though. How long did he last at the car dealership?”
“Tommy’s not much of a salesman. Maybe a few weeks?” Lizzie grimaced.
“And before that? Outta work for months, eh? Looks bad on that old resume to have big gaps. You’ve been here for over a year, and he’s only worked less than a month in that time. You should sell that house, Lizzie. Get an apartment. One bedroom. Send him back from whence you both came. He’s an albatross, my dear.”
Lizzie sighed, forcing a smile. She looked down into her cup and bobbed the teabag in the water. It’d steeped enough to turn the water a light brown. “His family wouldn’t take him back. He’s got nowhere to go.”
“They pawned him off on you and changed the locks, eh?” Kate grinned and sipped her tea.
“Basically.”
“Remind him that you’ve got a mortgage now. He isn’t living in his parents’ basement. He’s an adult.”
“He thought I inherited the house. Totally didn’t understand how it worked.” Lizzie shrugged and sipped her tea. It was still too hot and burned her tongue. She flinched and set the cup on the counter. “Kind of my fault too for not explaining better.”
“How old is he? Thirty?”
“Yeah.”
“I’d throw him to the wolves.”
“He’s my boyfriend…”
“You’re too nice, Lizzie.”
“I’m just as stuck as he is.”
“Again, why don’t you sell the property?” Kate asked, slipping behind the counter, and waking one of the flat-screen registers with a tap to the mouse. The sale screen popped up and she minimized it. “You’d have to pay back the bank, of course, but then you wouldn’t be stuck living in Puhtipstie. You could move back to Pennsylvania.”
“It was my parents’ house. I was born here.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to die here.”
Lizzie blew on her tea. “It’ll be fine. It’s just a little crazy right now. Bad time to job hunt. Bad place to look. I’ll tighten my belt a little more.
“If that’s your subtle way of asking for a raise, consider it done. I’d rather that than have you get a second job when your boyfriend can’t even manage one.” Kate sipped her tea
again, raising a brow.
“A raise?”
“It’s hard times for me too, Lizzie. I opened at eight and sold five books. But I’ve got savings, and I think you should too. You might need it,” Kate said. “You’ve been here for a year almost, and you’ve struggled the whole time. Might be time to make a hard call.”
“The hard call? Selling the house and kicking Tommy to the streets?” Lizzie tilted her head and attempted another sip of tea. It didn’t scorch her tongue this time. “That’s what you mean?”
Kate’s glasses reflected the bright white of the computer screen for a moment while she browsed the internet. “Do you know what I did before I opened this bookstore ten years ago, Lizzie?”
“Hm?”
“I spent a lot of time being unhappy, married to a man who contributed to that unhappiness. I had my books to keep me company while he had his liquor. Took all I had to leave him. Hard call. Very hard call.” Kate sipped her tea slowly, scrolling idly through book listings. “He died two years later, all alone in that house, bottle in his hand.”
“Wow. I mean… I’m sorry. That must have been difficult.”
“It was. We were married for twenty years. The last few of those, I only stayed out of pity and fear. Pity for him. Fear of what’d happen to him. Didn’t care one bit about myself. You stay with Tommy because you feel sorry for him. He knows it too. The sooner you let him go, the sooner you’ll get to live your life. Trust me.”
Lizzie stared at her tea before glancing over at Kate. Their eyes did not meet. “I hear you.”
“You always do,” Kate said. “Ah, well. I feel like we say the same things at least once a week.” She perked up, smiling. “Don’t you have that gallery on Friday, eh? That Margo lady from the frame store…”
“Oh, yeah. Margo.” She nodded. “I’m helping her clear out the second floor for the event. It’s mostly storage right now. It’s her stuff on show, really. She paints too. I’m using the back room. Bringing ten of my paintings and some copies of my book. Not that anyone will come.”
“I’ll be there. Closing the store early, remember?”
“Thank you. That means a lot.”
“It’ll be a slow drag to eight at this rate. You good to take over?” Kate finished her drink and dumped the teabag into the trashcan under the counter.
“I’m good. I’ll close up.”
There were only two more customers for the day, and that was Teddy Miller and his sister Helena. The pair had come in at seven on the dot and gravitated to the horror section as usual, perusing the used books and speaking in low, muttering tones to one another.
Teddy wore his big baggy hoodie, his wavy brown hair a tangled mess while Helena wore a ridiculously oversized puffy coat with a faux fur trim surrounding her peach shaped face like a halo. Her big, mascara lined eyes blinked at Lizzie from where she stood at a bookshelf.
“Hullo, Lizzie,” Helena said, waving weakly, her fingers curling as she held up a hand.
“How’s it going?” Lizzie asked.
“S’good. You have that thing Friday, don’t you?”
“Oh, were you coming?”
Teddy looked up from a crinkly old horror novel. “Yes.”
“Do you have new paintings?” Helena asked.
“I do. And some old ones.” Lizzie shrugged. “I did about five pieces in the last few months, so they’ll be coming with me.”
“Are you selling them?” Teddy asked.
“Why? Are you buying?”
“Pfft. I’m broke. I was just curious.” He smirked, showing off crooked teeth, and turned away. Teddy had just turned eighteen and considered himself an adult. The boyish charm occasionally shined through the serious façade he attempted. “The flyer said there’d be free snacks.”
“So, you’re coming for the snacks? Not for me?” Lizzie tilted her head.
“I’m coming to see your paintings, Lizzie,” Helena stated, her smile slightly off center. “Ignore him. He’s an asshole. I love your artwork. It’s just the right amount of creepy. You should make it horror themed!”
“I’d like to say it’s surreal and visceral. Metaphysical.” Lizzie gestured in the air, finished her tea, and set the cup to the side. “Like a glimpse into the human psyche.”
Helena went to the display table and picked up one of the small, 4×4 plaques. Looking it over, she studied the elongated, screaming face painted there. The light and dark contrast was stark. The eyes were black holes, like the mouth. “So, horror. Like I said.”
“Would market better as horror.” Teddy nodded, reading the inside liner of another book.
Helena pointed at her. “And everyone’s already creeped out by the paintings out front. That’s why we’re your only customers. You scared off everyone else.”
“That’s not nice to say,” Lizzie said.
“It’s true though. People in this town are lameoids.” Helena feigned a gag and lowered her hood. She’d dyed her hair black weeks back and the lighter roots were showing. There were copper highlights in her natural brown hair. “If you weren’t so old, I’d ask you to hang.”
“Old? I’m thirty.”
She scrunched her face. “That’s old.”
“I guess to a teenager, it is. Not that I’d be much fun to hang with. I’m pretty boring. You’re better off seeing me here and giving me a hard time.” Lizzie smiled.
“And another thing… Why don’t you try writing something scary for a change?” Helena waved a hand around. “Write a book about ghosts or monsters, or a serial killer, or a werewolf, or something.”
Her brows lifted. “I like science fiction.”
“Sure, yeah, but does it sell?” When silence followed, Helena exhaled, leaning forward dramatically. “I’m just saying. I liked your book, Lizzie. It’s just… not enough of what I wanted. No murderous aliens or parasites bursting from peoples’ chests. No space mutants.”
“I’ll make sure to include those in the sequel for you, okay?” Lizzie rolled her eyes.
“And hot chicks. More hot chicks,” Teddy added.
Lizzie folded her arms across her chest. “Are you guys going to buy anything tonight or are you just looky-looing in the store?”
Teddy took out his wallet. “I’ve got a tenner that says you’d better be nicer.”
“Oh, big spender.”
Helena grabbed an old, beat up copy of a classic; the horror master himself had published it twenty years prior. She waggled it in the air. “Already found something.”
“Nice.” Lizzie grinned.
She stood at the counter watching the two as they continued trolling around the shelves until they’d gathered a small stack each. After they paid and left, Lizzie sighed and peered out of the window, looking over the back of her painting at the snow beginning to lay on the sidewalk.
The drive home was relatively uneventful. There were few traffic lights and more stop signs in the town proper, most of the storefronts barren with empty insides. Closed for good years back and left untouched. The road needed work too, the potholes growing deep and dangerous at several of the intersections.
Not long after leaving the shopping district, she drove past the firehouse and the veterinary office. There was a small hospital and a dentist along the main strip, the gaps between the buildings growing longer and more forestry the further she drove. The last of the non-residential structures were some old, condemned office buildings, the lots left to pot for years.
Some large, Victorian style homes – beautiful and tragic, like once sacred relics left to rot – sat vacant on hills on either side of the road as she drove home. Three had been condemned and the fourth had lights on upstairs. She peered over as she noticed and faced forward again, listening to her music blast in the car.
Her skinny, two floor house waited for her down Skye Avenue, just outside of town proper. Puhtipstie didn’t have much of a population anymore; most of the houses on her street were for sale and had been since she’d moved in a year ago. The la
wns looked like jungles and she swore she saw the top of a car hidden in the grass in her direct neighbor’s yard. A good fifty feet stood between each house with plenty of street parking. No garage. No driveway.
The tree out front had been cut down years back but the stump had never been removed. A garden had been attempted but had withered and died; her green thumb was nonexistent, and Tommy hadn’t lifted a finger to help.
Fresh powdered snow gathered on her lawn and sidewalk, the porch covered and the lawn chairs dirty. She parked the car and gathered her things before exiting. Again, she checked the locks. Not that anyone would ever steal anything in this neighborhood…
The streetlights flickered and a cat ran across the road, catching her attention. It was right about then the wind picked up and she wished she’d worn a coat. Still, it was a short walk to the front door, and she rifled through her pocket for her keys. A brisk breeze stung her cheeks, and she jammed the key in to find the front door unlocked.
She could hear his video game even before she entered and frowned, annoyed. Music blared. Weapons clashed. Explosions. He yelled, furious.
Lizzie entered the house and saw Tommy splayed across their futon, his headset on and his controller in his hands. He was spellbound by the big, fifty-inch TV set only five feet in front of him, eyes glassy but intense at the same time, like a man gazing into a void. He hadn’t changed out of his boxer shorts and undershirt when he’d rolled out of bed at noon.
She eyed him. “Front door was unlocked.”
“Must’ve been you. I haven’t been anywhere.”
“No shift tonight?” She came to stand next to the futon. Tommy hadn’t showered either today by the smell of him
He barely acknowledged her. “Uhn.”
“Hey, Tommy. No shift tonight?”
He squinted up at her, craning his neck. He hadn’t shaved in a few days and his hair was a mess of brown and gray. “No. No shift. Hi.”
“I thought you were scheduled tonight for stocking.”
“I called out.”
