by C. V. Hunt
I shut the bedroom window before heading back down the stairs and found Brent typing on his laptop with one hand and spooning the last of the beef stew into his mouth. A strong wind whipped the kitchen curtains around wildly. Brent didn’t seem to be concerned with the coming storm so I dropped the rain coat on the back of my chair and closed the window before I proceeded to make a peanut butter sandwich to take with me. I was hungry but the smell of Brent’s rotten canned dinner still hung in the air and I didn’t think I could eat it now.
When I was done wrapping the sandwich I turned to him and leaned my hip against the counter. I said, “I shut the attic.”
Brent stopped typing and looked at me as he swallowed the last bite of his food. I waited a few seconds for him to say something but he stared at me expectantly. I wasn’t sure what he was waiting for but his expression looked slightly worried.
“It was open when I woke up,” I said. “I went up the ladder to see what was up there.”
His eyes narrowed the tiniest bit as if he were suspicious or possibly confused.
“I watched the movie up there.”
He furrowed his brow and said, “What movie?”
“On the projector.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “What projector?”
“The one you drug out of the hidden closet. God, Brent, I swear you’re trying to fucking gaslight me.”
“Laura . . . I honestly have no fucking clue what you’re talking about. I’m not fucking with you. There’s nothing in the attic except for the mousetraps I put up there.”
My heart skipped a beat. If Brent didn’t pull the trunk out of the hidden spot then who did? Was there someone else in the house when I was sleeping?
“Okay,” I said. “I’m going to be one-hundred percent honest with you right now. I’m fucking scared.”
I turned to look up the stairs. Everything looked normal. I turned back to Brent. He had followed my gaze and then met my eyes. A flash of lightning lit up the kitchen window followed by a loud crack of thunder that made me jump.
He spoke slowly. “What’s going on?”
I tried to remain calm. “I woke up and found the attic open and the ladder down. I climbed up there because the light was on and I wanted to turn it off. When I got up there I found a trunk had been dragged out of a makeshift hidey place and a projector was sitting on top of it. There was a movie roll in the projector and I watched it. The movie was sorta creepy. I’d shut up the attic and had to pee and was headed to the bathroom when you came home. I figured you’d been up there going through stuff when I was sleeping and ran out for something.”
Fat drops of rain began to fall on the kitchen window pane.
His eyes widened. “I wasn’t up there. I didn’t find any projector.” He stood abruptly and headed for the stairs.
“No no no.” I followed him and grabbed his arm to stop him. “Don’t go up there. What if someone is up there?”
“I think we would’ve heard them by now.” He tried to pull his arm from my grip.
“Call the police. Have them look first.”
The rain began to pelt the roof.
He turned fully toward me and sighed. “To be completely honest with you, I think you’re full of shit.”
I let go of his arm and took a step back as if he’d stung me. “What are you talking about?”
“You accuse me of gaslighting you? I think you’re either fucking with me or you need to take some of the money you make tonight and see a doctor to get back on your meds. There’s no trunk up there. There’s no hidden door. There’s no movie.”
I folded my arms across my chest. I was done. I wasn’t going to argue with him. I was going to wait for him to climb the ladder and see for himself. I might struggle with depression but I wasn’t schizoaffective.
He turned back to the stairs and climbed them. I followed him and stood back as he lowered the attic door. I stayed in the hallway while he went into the attic. The light came on and Brent was gone less than ten seconds before he started back down the attic ladder.
He looked at me and waved his arm to insinuate I should take a look for myself.
The fear of heights didn’t even cross my mind. I bolted up the ladder and looked over the edge. The trunk was gone. “What the fuck?” I said and climbed onto the attic floor. Not only was the trunk gone but there were no scratches on the floor and there was no hidden door in the wall.
Am I losing my fucking mind?
I rubbed my forehead for a moment, trying to process what had happened. Water was starting to drip in a few spots on the ceiling. My mind struggled to find the logic in what I’d seen. I thought, Okay. Bitch, you need to see a doctor.
I turned off the light and descended the ladder. Brent waited in the hallway. I didn’t say anything to him as I closed the attic door. When I did turn to him he looked very stern. As if he were about to discipline a child for lying. I felt as though I were a dog being punished for shitting on the floor. I couldn’t make eye contact with him and passed him without a word and headed down the stairs. I needed to get to work.
SIXTEEN
IT WAS HARD to tell if the darkness was all from the storm or if some of it could be attributed to the setting sun as I walked through the downpour toward The Meditation Temple. My mind felt jumbled as I tried to piece together what had happened. Had I been asleep? That wasn’t possible. I had a horrendous scrape on my shin from climbing into the attic. How would I have gotten that if I’d only dreamed of finding the trunk in the attic? And the movie on the projector . . . How and why would my mind have made that up? If I hadn’t been in such a hurry to leave the house I could’ve looked up the imagery in the dream book to see what it had to say. I’d wanted to get out of the house and away from Brent as quickly as possible. I’d left in such a rush I almost forgot my coat and sandwich.
I tried to clear my mind as I walked. The last thing I wanted was to come off as aloof on my first day of my new job. Not that cleaning required much brainpower or focus but, still, no need to make Dan second guess his decision to hire me even if it was all under the table.
Thunder rumbled in the distance and I looked up at the sky. I had no idea what time it was and Dan and I hadn’t agreed to any set time or day. He told me I was free to set my own hours. I assumed it was okay to pop in whenever I wanted to work since the place was open all the time. I figured the night shift was the best because I hated being in the house at night since it gave me the creeps and it was more likely there would be fewer people meditating at night.
As I approached The Mediation Temple I took notice of an older minivan parked in the lot. Someone was meditating. Dan hadn’t given me any instructions on what to do if people were actively meditating. He hadn’t even shown me where the cleaning supplies were.
I opened the door and made sure to hold it as it closed so it wouldn’t make any noise. There was an umbrella propped against the wall beside the coat rack but other than that the place looked exactly the same as the last time I’d been there. The rain created a steady sound as it beat on the roof but the volume was less deafening than in the house.
I figured the meditation room was off limits so I hung my wet jacket on a hanger as soundlessly as I could, leaving my sandwich in the pocket, before I made my way toward the stairs leading to Dan’s living quarters. I cursed myself for not bringing the phone or at least a flashlight I could use once I got to the bottom of the stairs. The same thin line of light shone from the bottom of Dan’s door down the hallway and I felt along the walls as I made my way toward it. Once I made it to the door I could hear some music being played softly inside.
I felt a cool, stale breeze coming from farther down the hall and thought I heard a shuffling. I held my breath and listened and swore I could make out a faint sound. It almost sounded like a sigh or breathing.
A thunderclap startled me. I didn’t want to be in the hallway anymore. I tried to rap on Dan’s door lightly but hit it with too much force.
Dan op
ened the door with a worried expression. A haze of incense smoke hovered behind him. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, socks, or shoes, only a black pair of linen pants with a drawstring waistband. Before averting my gaze I noticed several scars on his chest. A couple of them were crescent shaped.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. I pointedly stared at the ground. “There was someone meditating and I wasn’t really sure what I needed—”
Dan stepped back abruptly and turned but left the door open. He snatched a black T-shirt from the futon and pulled it over his head quickly but not before I noticed more scars on his back. I could tell from his movements and posture the scars were either a source of embarrassment or something he didn’t care for other people to see.
He turned back to me with a nervous smile and said, “It’s okay.” He motioned me in. “Come in. You can wait in here for a bit.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“It’s no problem. Really. Have a seat.”
I felt my face flush as I stepped in and shut the door behind me. “I’m really sorry I—”
He waved a hand to cut me off. “If I didn’t want people to bother me I wouldn’t have made the place accessible twenty-four hours a day.” He motioned for me to take a seat on the futon. “Do you want some water?”
“Uh, yes. Thank you.”
He retrieved a bottle of water from the refrigerator before taking a seat on the opposite end of the futon. He nodded to my ankles. “Got a little soaked.”
I looked at my pants as I removed the twist cap from the bottle of water and took a sip. I’d been so wrapped up in what had happened at the house I hadn’t paid much attention to whether or not I’d tromped through a million puddles on my way here. Not only were my pants soaked but so were my socks and shoes.
“Guess so,” I said. I let out a nervous chuckle before looking around his living quarters again. I found myself staring at a corner near the ceiling for too long.
“Everything okay?” Dan asked.
“No. I mean yeah. I’m fine.” Dealing with depression was exhausting and one could only keep up the façade for so long before you started to crack. People who were observant could always tell when something wasn’t quite right. There was one excuse I’d found that worked no matter what because it was also a partial truth when a bout of depression hit. I said, “Just tired.”
“Didn’t sleep well?”
“Not really. Something weird hap—” I stopped myself. What was I doing? I couldn’t tell him what happened. Get your shit together, Laura.
Dan looked at me expectantly. “Something weird?”
I shook my head. “The house is creepy. That’s all. Keeps me from getting any sleep. Figured it would be better to work at night to get away from it. It doesn’t bother me so much during the day. It’s going to take me a while to get adjusted to the new sleep schedule.”
He nodded. “That’s understandable.”
The music that was playing softly came to a stop. A soft pop came from the speakers and then a small click sounded from the record player as the needle dropped back into its proper place. Dan stood and retrieved the record from the player and slipped it back into its cardboard sleeve before replacing it in one of the milkcrates.
He turned to me. “Any requests.”
“Play whatever you like. I’ll listen to anything.” I took another drink of water and replaced the cap before setting the bottle on the ground by my feet.
He chuckled. “I sorta have a strange taste in music. What do you normally listen to?”
I shrugged. “Whatever is on the radio. I don’t own any records or CDs or anything. It always seems like everyone around me has specific tastes so I let them pick. I don’t care much for country though.”
“Not a fan of country myself.” He pulled a white album from one of the milkcrates. I’d never seen the artwork before and it was very minimal. He placed the LP on the record player and the music that began was somehow a mix of electronic, atmospheric, instrumental, and new age. I’d never heard anything like it but could see how someone could easily meditate or fall asleep to it.
He grabbed one of the milkcrates and sat it in front of me before he took a seat beside me. He said, “You’re more than welcome to take off your socks and shoes and give them a chance to dry.” He pointed to the crate. “Pick a record.”
I removed my socks and shoes like he suggested before carefully flipping through the records. Touching people’s music always felt extremely personal and made me nervous. When I was twelve or thirteen I’d gotten a job babysitting and I’d spent the majority of my money on CDs and cassette tapes. One of my brothers had taken it upon himself to go into my room when I wasn’t home and take whatever music or money he could find. Of course I was pissed about the missing money but I took even more umbrage with the theft of my music. Music had been an escape for me then. Back when depression was an ugly word and you’d thought I’d told my parents I worshipped Satan instead of trying to ask for help. I learned real quick to keep my feelings and problems to myself unless I wanted my parents to threaten to have me ‘committed.’ I didn’t know what that all entailed but I’d seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and I sure as fuck didn’t want to have a lobotomy. Back then the lyrics from bands like The Gits and Mudhoney called to me in a way that said ‘you’re not the only miserable sack of shit on the planet.’ I took solace in music back then. Now I found comfort in antidepressants and I was out of those.
I found an album with a photo of a pretty, young blond girl on the front and pulled it from the milkcrate. “Who’s this?”
“Chromatics.”
“Never heard of them.”
“They’re dream pop. Kinda synth pop.”
“I think I might be too old to listen to them.”
“Nonsense. Here.” He held out his hand for me to hand the LP over.
He replaced the album on the player with my selection. I could see why he called it dream pop once the girl began to sing. Dan watched me for a reaction as I listened.
“I like this.” I waited a beat. “A lot. It’s soothing. Not as chaotic as some stuff.”
He smiled as he stood in front of the record player. It was as if he’d been waiting to rip it from under the needle if I hadn’t liked it. He returned to the futon. We both sat without speaking, listening to the music. I leaned back and my eyes landed on Dan’s lap. A wave of embarrassment washed over me when I noticed he had an erection. My face flushed and my cheeks tingled and I diverted my eyes, hoping he hadn’t noticed I was looking at his dick.
I stared at the door as my mind raced. I wasn’t completely sure his arousal was because of me but I’d wished I hadn’t looked. Why had I looked? My heart sped up and I shifted forward and sat on the edge of the futon. I was about to tell him I was going to check to see if the person meditating had left when Dan leaned forward also. He reached under the futon and retrieved a small wooden box. I recognized the box for what it was once he spoke.
He said, “Do you smoke?”
The question was so far out of leftfield it left me speechless for a few seconds. “Oh. Uh . . . I used to. It’s been a really long time. Like, a decade. Maybe longer. I smoked a lot of pot in high school to cope.”
“Cope?”
“I wasn’t very popular. Got picked on a lot. I used it as a coping mechanism.”
He lifted the box to me. “Would you like to? I promise it’s only pot. It’s medical. Certified and everything.”
“I probably shouldn’t. I don’t think I’ll be much good if I get high. I’d probably spend all night vacuuming the same spot over and over.”
He chuckled. “Okay. You don’t mind if I do, do you?”
“No. Go right ahead.”
Dan opened the box and retrieved a dugout. I felt like I was visiting some artifacts from a former self. God, how long had it been since I’d seen a dugout? He flipped the top of the contraption and the fake cigarette popped up. He pulled the device from its home before mashing
it down in the other slot for the pot. He grabbed the lighter next to the incense burner before he lit up.
The smell took me way back. It instantly brought back a memory from high school. Sitting in the back of Tom Jacobs’ car in a wooded area where the local teens went to make out. Getting high and kissing. A lot of heavy petting and two horny teens trying to fuck while stoned out of their heads. I had such a crush on Tom but no matter how hard we tried to fuck in the back seat of his car it wasn’t meant to be. We were both so nervous. He had a hard time keeping an erection and my cunt locked up tighter than Fort Knox. It wasn’t until years later that I discovered what vaginismus meant. I was so heartbroken back then when Tom didn’t return any of my calls afterward. Back then I thought there was something horribly wrong with me and that was the reason we weren’t able to fuck and why he stopped seeing me afterward. I never dated another guy the rest of high school. I was terrified Tom had told everyone. Knowing what I knew now I realized he was probably more embarrassed than I was over what had happened. What teen guy wanted his peers to know he couldn’t get his dick up?
Dan breathed out a cloud of smoke before saying, “You okay?”
“Yeah. The smell brings back some old memories.”
“Good ones I hope.”
I held out my hand, indicating I’d like to take a hit. “Can I?”
“Sure.”
“You don’t have to pay me for tonight. Let’s call this hanging out.”
“We’ll call it orientation. I’ll show you where everything is afterward. And the office.”
I took the littlest hit I could and blew it back out immediately. It had been a long time and I didn’t want to get too high because I knew that would make me paranoid. “There’s an office?” I handed the one hitter back to him.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s where the closet with all the cleaning stuff is. It’s down the same hall as the restrooms.”
I sat back on the futon and closed my eyes as the pot kicked in and listened to the music. My whole body began to tingle and I felt weightless.