by Dalena Storm
When Sam showed up at her door she’d had scratches on her leg from broken glass. She hadn’t explained the injury, and Bianca hadn’t asked.
“I hate him, Mom. He’s such a bastard,” Sam had cried, and Bianca had held her. She’d been reassuring and empathetic. She’d been motherly as she listened while Sam colored Peter’s name with insults and then tried to take them back later, once her tears had dried. “He didn’t really mean it,” she’d insisted. “He’s just so mean when he’s drunk.”
“And when isn’t he drunk?” Bianca had countered, bitter and not bothering to hide it.
“He was doing good for a while.”
Empty promises, Bianca had thought, and indeed, he’d called the next morning and promised to reform.
“Take a break from it, Sam. Stay a while with us. Think of it as giving him a chance to prove himself.”
It had worked at first. Sam had stayed with Bianca for two whole months, precious time that had allowed a mother to re-bond with her daughter. Sam had grown into a truly remarkable woman. She was smart and spirited, independent and motivated. They’d had many conversations, long into the night, about how Sam could move her life forward if she wanted to, and Sam had finally made the decision—had made up her own mind, so she wouldn’t back out. She’d found a place of her own and gone through with the divorce, and then when she’d been starting to move on with her own life, the accident had happened, and Peter had reappeared. Just like that, all of Sam’s new opportunities had been snatched from her grasp.
Sam was a smart girl, but she’d given too much of herself away already. Bianca wasn’t going to let her make the same mistake twice.
Chapter Thirteen
Jimmy had created one simple rule for himself: never get attached to the cats. That didn’t mean he didn’t love them, but that he loved them with the understanding that, someday, he’d have to tell each and every single one of them goodbye. Most of them, if it were their good fortune, would get adopted. Others would leave the shop on another vehicle: death.
The new kittens were delightful, all crawly and tiny and warm. Only poor little Mickey wasn’t allowed to suck her mamma’s teat, which gave Jimmy the cause to bottle-feed her.
“There you go, Mickey,” he’d say as he nursed her. “There you go. Get big and strong. Then you’ll show ’em who’s boss.”
He could tell right away that Mickey had a personality. Even before she’d opened her eyes she’s been as fiery as a firecracker. She was demanding and certain. She knew what she wanted, and had an intelligence and lucidity that Jimmy didn’t often see in other cats.
“Okay, Mickey,” he’d say when she signaled she was ready to be fed. “Just hang on, I’ll get to it!”
Eventually, her colors started to show, and she was orange with a white star on her forehead. The mark reminded Jimmy a little of Annie Lenox. Jimmy toyed briefly with the idea of changing Mickey’s name—Come here, Annie—but it was too sweet. Mickey was more appropriate; it had more of a bite to it and seemed to better suit the little orange fireball.
In the evenings Jimmy would play guitar and sing the songs that came to his mind. As he came into the window, it was the sound of a crescendo… He’d imagine each cat knew its part and would chime in when he got to the artist who was their namesake. Cats were funny about music. They mostly didn’t sync up with it. They were too independent, but they still had their preferences. He could tell what they liked and what they didn’t.
Sometimes Jimmy could get Mickey to come and sit next to him as he played. He liked the audience, and so he’d sit in the big chair by the doorway and get Mickey to lounge on the table at his side. They’d look out together over the crowd and serenade the feline beasts. Jimmy sang and Mickey watched him sing. She was hard to read, that one. Jimmy couldn’t tell if she liked it or not. It was like she was analyzing, assessing. Like she hadn’t made up her mind. Jimmy could tell she was strong-minded, so he didn’t want to push it. Let her decide what she wanted. Jimmy could sit and sing all night.
Peter was thrilled. He must have misread Tony; the bakery called him the next day with a job offer and now he was getting everything in order. He’d promised the landlord the rent check was coming soon—with interest. He was cleaning up.
When Sam was ready to live again, he’d be ready for her, too.
The next couple of weeks passed in a breeze. Peter was busy—going to the bakery, learning recipes for different types of bread, tidying up at home. Still, having explained the situation with his new boss, he found time to visit Sam at the hospital every day. Peter truly believed his visits helped.
“Hey there, Sammy," he greeted Sam at each visit. "Want to hear some Bowie?" And he'd queue it up on his phone and hold it next to her head, watching with rapt attention at the expressions that came over her face. She was still lying there inert, but her eyes were open and the music seemed to provoke eye movement. Sometimes her gaze flitted rapidly around the room. Once there was a chin toss, a lurch. He could feel the others in the room—the doctors and nurses, even the other patients—watching him, judging his choices, but they didn’t know Sam like he did. He knew how to get his Sammy to dance.
It was two months of this treatment before Peter saw any real progress. In a way, that was good, he thought, because it gave him time to settle down. He’d lost ten pounds since he’d stopped drinking and Sam had been slimming up, too. That was what happened when you couldn’t sit up and eat and all of your nourishment came through an IV. The rest of Sam’s family still visited intermittently, and Bianca was almost always there, but it was Peter who was proving he could be reliable, day after day after day.
In the final week of October, Peter arrived to find Sam sitting upright in bed. She wasn’t doing anything, and she was completely unattended—not even Bianca was in the hospital room at this hour. Peter tried to control the anxious fluttering in his chest as he walked to Sam’s bedside in a manner that he hoped was cheerful and confident. He hadn’t seen Madeline again, and for that he was grateful.
He should have brought flowers. He should have known. Goddamn it!
“Hey there, Sammy. How’s the weather today?” Peter said, trying for casual. This had been another of their old jokes, the thing about the weather. Sam had liked to describe her emotional state in terms such as, It’s raining today, if she was gloomy, or else, if there was hope, It’s cloudy, but there might be a chance of sun.
Sam’s eyes did not register any change in the room at all. Of course, Peter was used to her ignoring him. She still wasn’t fully present, and though her eyes were always watching in a strange, unseeing way she hadn’t really seen him come in. He sat at the head of the bed and placed his shoulder bag on the floor, then leaned forward and took Sam’s right hand in both of his, clasping it.
“Hey,” he said. When she didn’t look at him, Peter massaged the tips of his fingers into her palm while running his thumbs over the back of her hand, hoping to trigger some sensation. He was so concentrated on massaging Sam’s hand that the swift movement of her left arm took him by surprise. When her hand grasped him at his upper shoulder he could feel her fingers—cold—tighten urgently as they moved to the skin of his neck.
Sam’s head swiveled and her eyes bore into his with an expression Peter didn’t recognize. It was like she was seeing something past his eyes—like she was looking inside of him rather than at him, and she didn’t like what she saw. “I’m hungry,” Sam rasped, and Peter felt his throat constrict. Something about her voice was off. It wasn’t just that it was huskier—that much was to be expected when someone had barely spoken in months—it was the intonation, the lilt of the words had changed from what he remembered. It wasn’t Sam’s voice.
“Okay, Sammy, okay,” he said, releasing her right hand so he could remove the other gripping his neck. He placed both back down on the bedcovers and patted them gently. It must take time, he thought, this whole waking up process. He could understand that. She’d been through a lot. Now was his chance
to show her how patient he could be, how cheerful and normal and stable. How husbandly. “How about we find you something to eat,” he offered, stretching a reassuring smile across his face.
Chapter Fourteen
November had arrived. Madeline knew she was letting too much time go by without visiting Sam, but she hadn’t been able to make herself go back to the hospital since that day in late August. She didn’t want to run into Peter or the rest of Sam’s family and be forced to make small talk or, worse, explain herself. Besides, Madeline felt like it was all too much. The amount of constant attention Sam was getting had to be smothering her. And it was too much for Madeline, too. Run-ins with the ex-husband and the family were not something she was seeking. She also didn’t see what she could do for Sam; it wasn’t like Sam even knew Madeline was there while she was unconscious.
Instead, Madeline had been channeling all of her unsatisfied desire into her ghost story, as if the act of writing could put an end to the tension she wanted to avoid. She was writing a happy ending, forcing events to play out in the way that she wanted—the way they weren’t going currently in reality but that they could, she was certain. Yet, night after night she woke up in a sweat. The morning she decided to go back to the hospital was no different. She’d been caught up in another intense dream about Sam.
“We can’t stay here,” Sam had said in the dream.
They’d been in Sam’s house by the lake—the one Madeline had conjured up in her mind, since she’d never been there in real life—embracing in the dining room, swaying to music, somewhat drunk.
“Why not?” asked Madeline. Ignoring Sam’s protests, she’d pushed the other woman against the wall as desire overtook her. Sam had groped for the lights, and then everything went dark. Madeline could hear Sam’s breathing, loud and clear in the dream. She could feel the physical presence of Sam’s warmth in front of her. She could smell her skin, patchouli and musk.
In the dream, Madeline ran her hands under Sam’s shirt, her fingers sliding around her waist. They’d skip the bedroom. They’d do it right there. Pressing Sam against the wall she fiddled with the button of Sam’s jeans. Sam growled encouragingly in her ear.
I’m hungry. I’m going to eat you up. Sam’s eyes flashed in the darkness, but it wasn’t really Sam’s eyes. They were different—they were ravenous, diseased. Bottomless.
Suddenly the struggle was different. The body against Madeline’s wasn’t Sam. Madeline needed to get away. She writhed and pulled but was caught by the person that had once been Sam. “Help!” Madeline cried, trying to scream out around Sam’s hand, which was covering her mouth, making her breath stale while the other grabbed at her throat, choking off her words.
“Help!” Madeline’s scream into the room was silent and she woke up moaning, still trying to get out the word, “Hellll—”
Madeline sucked in a deep breath and tried to calm down. It was early morning and still dark, but she could hear birds chirping outside. The way Sam had touched her in the dream had felt wrong, but… Madeline slid her hands into her underwear and tried to reimagine the scene, to make it good, to make it the fantasy it could be. There was no monster this time, just Sam as she remembered—willing and wanting. Madeline moved her hips, imagining Sam’s lips and eyes. Her tongue, her fingers, her nose, her breath.
“Sam,” Madeline shuddered, but her orgasm was weak and left her unsatisfied.
Afterward, she felt empty, but no longer scared.
Madeline got up. She pulled on clean clothes. She ruffled her hair, checked the weather, and made up her mind to visit Sam. It was only November, but already the sky was threatening snow.
The human called Peter was leaning close, helping the ghost to stand. It wrapped its arms around Peter’s neck. As it had gained control over its new shell over the past months it had grown to know the different humans. It had become more comfortable in its own human body, though many things were still unclear.
“I’m hungry,” the ghost said, using this most familiar and immediate of phrases. It had discovered a wealth of language stored in its memory that it could recall easily enough and make use of when necessary, but most was irrelevant. What it needed was food.
“Yeah, yeah. Okay,” said Peter. “It wouldn’t hurt, you know, to say, ‘hi,’ or, ‘glad to see you’.” The ghost looked at Peter and Peter looked at the ghost. Peter was the first to look away. “Forget it. Let’s go find you something to eat.”
The ghost supported its weight on Peter’s arm as they moved down the hallway to find the metal box that slid between the walls of this place. The elevator would take them down, down, to the lowest floor where the food was kept. A human woman in a hairnet would put food on the tray, while the ghost would stare at her with barely-concealed lust. She was fat and her body oozed oil and sugar. She would taste wonderfully fried—the fat would crisp, the meat would be tender and sweet. Her skin was smooth, unblemished, and faintly red at the cheeks. She had full lips and a thick neck. Naked, the ghost imagined, she'd be like a bowl of blood pudding. Just remove the skin and dive into the contents beneath.
The ghost’s legs were still wobbly as it walked down the hallway. Its limbs were unpredictable, and it occasionally lost feeling in one foot. It was infuriating. It needed to go faster. It needed to eat. It needed to stuff this body full.
“Hey there, easy, just—careful of my hand, I just—fuck!” Peter cried as the ghost stumbled, using his hand to stop its fall.
Without warning, the ghost was pushed against the wall. Peter held it firmly, his breathing hard and uneven. His fingers were digging into its shoulders in ten hard points. In Peter’s eyes, the ghost saw something.
Hunger, it realized.
Hunger for something—from the ghost, from its body. From whomever the body had belonged to before it the ghost had claimed it.
Peter’s hunger was driving him toward a cliff and at the bottom would be the ghost. It would wait for him to fall with its mouth open. It licked its lips in anticipation.
Peter released the ghost’s shoulders and shook himself like he was trying to shake off the hunger, but the ghost knew he couldn’t—it was too deep inside of him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just…my hand. I burned it yesterday in the bakery—” He pulled the ghost roughly back into the middle of the hall, reattaching it to his arm as two humans walked toward them, one wearing a hospital gown exactly like the one the ghost wore.
“Hi there,” Peter said as they passed, his voice higher as he inclined his head, making the shape with his mouth that was a smile as he tried to pull the ghost along, gently now, in the direction of the cafeteria.
The ghost had seen him. It had seen his true side, and his true side was dangerous. The ghost clung to Peter more willingly now. If it stayed close, it might be able to…
“Oh—,” Peter said, stopping suddenly. “Madeline.”
When the ghost looked down the hall again it saw a third human approaching. This one was small without much flesh on its bones, but faintly familiar… had the ghost seen this one before?
As soon as Madeline saw Sam with Peter, she knew something was wrong.
Sam was walking now, which should have been good, but she was staring at everything with a dull, longing expression. It was cold, angry. Ravenous. Madeline had a chilling flashback to her nightmare. The Sam she had known never looked at anything like that.
Peter was beside her, looking jumpy and guilty, awkward and uncomfortable. What was he up to? Was he hiding something? Did he think things would be different now between him and Sam?
“We were just going to the cafeteria,” Peter said when their paths were in danger of converging and he had to acknowledge her or be obviously rude. “Want to join us?”
“Uh, yeah,” Madeline agreed, even though of course she didn’t, and he must have known that, but she had no choice. She couldn't very well have said, I think I’ll pass, though she wanted to.
They walked back in the direction Madeline had come, summoned
the elevator, and waited in silence. Madeline tried to breathe normally, tried to moderate her emotions. This felt wrong and bad, but the reason why eluded her.
“It looks like snow out there,” Peter observed blandly.
“Uh, yeah,” Madeline said again, and then she searched desperately for something else to say. “Winter’s coming.”
Peter laughed, and it sounded unnatural. Forced. “Yeah. Better watch out. Santa will be here before you know it.”
The elevator arrived and the doors opened much too slowly, as if they dreaded letting in ill-fated passengers. Ignoring the feeling, Madeline shuttled herself through the doors, followed by Peter and then, moving sluggishly, Sam.
Inside, Madeline and Peter flanked the woman they had both coveted for so long, though whether it was to use her as a barrier between them or to keep her protected, Madeline wasn’t sure. The halves of the door stood resolutely open for at least ten seconds before they slowly inched closed. When they finally did Madeline felt the pressure of suffocation immediately.
Peter hit the button for floor “B” repeatedly, but the elevator didn’t move. “Damn thing,” he muttered, and half a minute later everything heaved into motion with a deep sigh. From floor four, down to three… Madeline could feel Sam’s presence at her shoulder, but she hardly dared to turn and look. Instead, she stole a glimpse out of the corner of her eye.
Sam was staring at her, but her eyes were hard and cruel.
Madeline quickly averted her gaze as goosebumps raised over her skin. She had no way to decode the look in Sam’s eyes, and she didn’t like what it might mean.
Ever so softly, Sam's arm brushed against Madeline’s and she pulled away, removing the contact. Sam’s body was emitting some kind of strange, nauseating energy that was palpable and thick in the confined space. Where Madeline had once felt pulled into Sam’s brightness, now all she wanted was to get away—to run and never look back. She never should have come to the hospital. There was a reason she had stayed away. She hadn’t known what it was at first—and she still wasn’t totally sure she could articulate it—but it had something to do with Sam and what had become of her.