A Ghost of Fire, Page 5

  Chapter Three

  The haze of sleep parted slowly and I began to gather memories of the night before like pieces of a puzzle. When the picture was put together enough for me to recollect the almost tangible sense of dread I had standing before the bathroom door my self-awareness snapped me upward. Memories of laughter and light from beneath the bathroom door swirled about me increasing my level of concern. What had been in the apartment with me? Had I imagined it?

  “No,” I decided. “That was definitely real.” As ludicrous as it would sound if I tried to explain to someone else about it I knew that it had really happened. Something had visited me in my living room last night. For what purpose I could not say. Nor could I say I cared to repeat the experience.

  I swung my legs out of bed and looked at them and then put my hands on my stomach and chest. I was in sweat pants and a white undershirt. I couldn’t recall putting these things on but I did remember getting into bed. Then again I couldn’t remember not putting them on. After the bathroom everything seemed to blur together and turn fuzzy as if I’d been semi-conscious. For the last ten minutes or so of the night my brain appeared to be a collection of still images more than moving ones, like an old photo album full of dusty and age-corroded pictures.

  I got out of bed and headed for the bathroom intending to take a shower and then stopped. Unsure of what might be hidden in there I chose to stay out, at least for the moment. I could go the day without showering or brushing my teeth. It was Sunday and I had nowhere pressing I needed to be that morning.

  I went over to the kitchenette to think. It was separated from the rest of the apartment by a wall on one side and a half wall with a counter on top upon which my phone rested. I went to the fridge and poured myself a glass of orange juice and walked back to the counter. I sat on one of the two barstools I kept there and began weighing my options.

  The thought of going to a hotel for a few days and returning to see if things cooled down occurred to me. I hoped the whole thing would blow over if I wasn’t there. Maybe it was just a one time thing and I wouldn’t have to worry about it again. Doubt shrouded this idea. I thought it had to have happened for a reason and was sure the reason had not simply passed away in the night like a puff of smoke, a ghost of a dead fire carried away in the wind. Reason suggested that whatever caused the event may have possessed enduring intentions.

  And what was I in the face of those intentions, whatever they might be? Was the visitation attracted to me or to this place? I had lived in the apartment for a few months now and nothing like it had happened before. Then again, I’d lived my life for thirty years and nothing like that had happened to me anywhere else. Or had it? Something elusive slithered out of my mind’s grasp just then. It was like the words of a song you knew well but couldn’t quite remember or arrange in the right order.

  Another possibility occurred to me. It might have been a confluence of both presence and geography. The right person at the right place. I imagined the wrong key sliding in the right lock or vice versa. It resulted in the door remaining locked. But when the right key went into the right lock and you heard the satisfying click, the door could open and you could go into the adjoining room. Or anything in the locked room could come out.

  “Yes,” I told myself, “it could be just like that.”

  I felt suddenly uncomfortable staying in the apartment, even in the daylight. Standing up from my stool, I went back over to the futon and began to gather my clothes from the previous day and put them on in a hurry. I snatched my wallet and watch off a nightstand made of upside down milk crates I kept close to the futon. I trotted toward the door and reached for the keys I had left on the counter the night before and accidentally knocked the phone out of its cradle. It tumbled to the kitchenette floor in a clatter I hoped didn’t waken whatever else might be in the apartment.

  Instinctively I reached down to the floor to pick it up. As I replaced it I saw the message light flashing. The little red eye winked as if it knew something I didn’t.

  If the phone had rung in the night or the early morning I was almost certain it would have awoken me. And I knew I had listened to the only message that had been on the machine last night. I hesitated for a moment, afraid of what might be on it. I reached forward and then pulled my hand back.

  “It’s just an old message, you chicken. Listen to it and get out of here.”

  I reached forward and pushed the button, bracing myself.

  The message began low and filled with static. Then the familiar childish laughter from the night before, this time distorted by the machine’s grainy white noise leapt up from the speaker and stopped my heart. But nothing could have prepared me for when the child spoke.

  “Hey mister?” I almost fell backward but caught myself. “Hey mister, can you help me? He’s coming again. Can you help me?” More static issued from the machine obscuring something the child was saying. An interminably long silence followed, punctuated only by the sound of the little girl breathing as if she was waiting for a response. But the sound of her breathing wasn’t regular. It sounded labored. She coughed a few times.

  Then another voice joined. This one was older and slightly deeper. It might have been a boy and it sounded like he was standing farther back into whatever room the little girl stood with the phone. He urged and pleaded with the girl, but I couldn’t discern what he was saying to her. I leaned closer to the machine, trying to make it out but it wouldn’t come. The message ended with a click. I wished then that my phone was one of the kinds which announced what time calls had come in.

  I had completely forgotten my urgent flight from the apartment by this point and pushed the button to play the message again. I sat myself down onto the stool as I listened to message again. When it finished I was sure the other voice was, in fact, a slightly older boy. When it ended I pushed the button again and listened, trying to decipher what the boy was trying to say to the girl. This time, however, halfway into the message the voice of the girl was interrupted by a third voice. This one was menacing and loud and it consisted of only two words.

  “STAY AWAY!”

  The voice of the girl shrieked at the interruption.

  It sounded almost more like a growl than human words. This time I really did fall over backwards as I tripped over my own feet when I walked backwards too fast. When I got up I heard the message click finished. I thought I should have been able to hear more of it than that, but it ended sooner than the other times. Frozen for a time I stared at the machine and the machine back at me. I dared to try one more time. I pushed the button.

  “No messages,” announced the robotic female voice.

  I almost tried again and then decided against it. I knew hoping for a different result by doing the same action was foolish. The message had somehow been erased and I didn’t want to figure out how. Instead I nabbed my keys, opened the door leading out of the apartment and bolted for my car.