by C.G. Banks
*
Later on, Patsy sat at the foot of her bed with the pistol in her hand. The curtains on the back window were drawn so she had a view of the backyard. The hall door for her bedroom was also open so she could see the distended attic ladder. She hadn’t bothered cleaning up the insulation. Hadn’t even bothered with changing her clothes and now, hours later, they were almost dry even though the bed where she sat was wet clean through to the box springs. She didn’t care. The phone had rung for a few minutes sometime long before, but she didn’t care about that either. All she cared about right now was sitting right here with the gun in her lap because ghost or not, the first motherfucker that showed was getting blown away. She’d had enough. And if Lorca picked right now to visit she’d kill him too. It was that simple.
There hadn’t been a goddamn thing in the attic. Not then anyway. Oh, there had been something, somethings from the look of it, earlier but of course it, they, whatever, had gone. After the fun with the insulation whatever it was had slunk off to whatever hell had spawned it and that was all right too. Because it would be back.
Patsy knew this, felt it with every sinew in her body, and that was why she sat here now, still in her wet clothes with little bits of insulation prickling at every bit of skin she possessed. And when it did she was going to kill it. That was the only foundation she had. If she had to go running down the street blasting every fucking thing she saw all the way to the highway, well, that was how it was going to be.
Because she’d had it. Terri, or not, she’d had it.
Her mind had descended to a blank pit of despair. She would not remember having spoken with the receptionist at Skate’s office, would never see the piece of paper she’d scratched the information on because it had blown off the counter when the air conditioner kicked on several hours before and miraculously made its drifting way beneath the refrigerator as if guided by malignant hands. As it probably had. And due to this fact alone, the careless drift of a scrap of paper, Carolyn Skate would be ultimately doomed and the final parts of the drama set into motion.
The air conditioner came on again and Patsy’s head snapped up, the sound breaking her from the darkness. She fanned the gun out in a two-fisted grip but her breathing was still moderate and controlled. Then she recognized, realized, the sound. Brought the gun slowly back to her lap. For the first time in hours she took assessment of her surroundings and blinked in confusion.
It was dark outside and she didn’t remember that. She could clearly see the new moon rising against the backyard and it was only then that she realized her situation. The wet clothes, the prickling skin. She set the gun down on the bed, never taking her eyes off it as she peeled off her clothes and stood away naked from the bed. She walked over to the window and looked out in search of any specters capering around back there. There were none. Or at least none she could see. She already knew the neighborhood was chock full of such creatures; they fairly crowded out the living if the truth be known, but they, too, obviously knew when times were dangerous and this was one of those times.
She pulled the curtains shut and walked back to the bed. Picked up the gun and trailed around the edge of the king-size to the master bathroom. She bent over the tub and turned the faucets on with her left hand. Popped the lever for the showerhead. Stepped into the tub neglecting to close the shower curtain and washed completely while maintaining the death-grip on the pistol. Then she stepped out, toweled off quickly, taking more time with the gun than she did her body, switching it from one hand to the other to finish up on herself.
Then she walked over to the bed, still nude, and threw the covers off to the floor. Lay down like a body in its coffin and stared at the ceiling, the gun a satisfying weight on her belly as the night slid slowly into the small hours.