The Flat: A Novel of Supernatural Horror

by Jack Douglas

  It was time to stand up for herself. It was time, like her mother was always telling her, to start looking out for number one.

  #

  Back at the flat, the plastic yellow telephone rang, startling Craig as he dozed in his clothes on the bed. He craned his neck to see the dusty second hand clock. It was already a quarter to ten.

  “Hello,” he answered. Then quickly, “I mean, ola.” “Movers,” the voice said. “Senhor Devlin?”

  “Sim, yes,” Craig said, still groggy. “We’re on the third floor.

  Apartment 306. You can use the lift at the end of the hall.”

  He was about to place the receiver back onto its cradle, when he heard the voice counter, “No, no, senhor.”

  Craig put the phone back to his ear. “Excuse me?”

  “We are not to bring your items upstairs, senhor. Only to the front door.”

  Craig smirked. “That’s absurd. The movers in New York came upstairs to collect our boxes, and they’re supposed to be delivered directly to our flat.”

  “Sorry,” the voice said without emotion. “We can no come upstairs.

  You, senhor, must come down.”

  Then Craig heard a dial tone. He slammed the phone down and leapt from the bed, cussing at nothing but air. Then he called out Amy’s name and received no answer.

  He stepped into the living room, quickly pulled a pair of flip flops from his luggage and slipped them onto his feet. He headed out into the hall.

  Goddamn movers, he thought. A thousand bucks to ship two dozen boxes from New York, and the lazy bastards wouldn’t even bring them upstairs. Was it any wonder he wanted nothing to do with people? That he simply desired a quiet life with as few distractions from the outside world as possible? Was that really so difficult for Amy to understand? Couldn’t she see that everything was such a hassle? That everyone they met was vile? That nothing ever went as planned?

  He punched the button to summon the lift. The car creaked and shrieked and jerked its way up to the third floor. When it arrived, he slid open the rickety brass gate, took a deep breath and stepped inside. He slid the gate shut, pressed the first floor button and stepped back.

  The lift suddenly dropped.

  Not far. Just a few feet. But it was enough to make Craig feel as though his stomach were barreling up his throat. He stumbled backward into the wall but kept his footing. The lift had frozen somewhere between the second and third floors.

  He waited, his pulse racing. He could feel it in his chest. Worse, he could hear it in his ear. The pulse was louder than it was earlier, twice as loud as when he first heard it on the plane.

  Craig stepped gingerly to the panel and pressed a button. Then he pressed another. Nothing happened. The lift was stalled.

  He started to panic.

  Even in New York Craig never took the subway. Even as a lawyer having to crisscross the city, from the courthouses in downtown Manhattan to Queens, from Brooklyn to the Bronx, he took taxis. Sure, the cabs cost a small fortune, but that was nothing compared to the alternative. Being trapped in a cramped subway car somewhere beneath the ground.

  (“Work!”)

  He typically avoided elevators, taking the stairs whenever he could. Nine flights to his office, five to his apartment in Battery Park. It was good exercise, he said, whenever Amy shot him a dirty look. He just didn’t like closed-in spaces. He couldn’t tolerate feeling trapped.

  (“Work!”)

  Nothing unusual about that.

  But Amy, of course, thought there was. And over the past year that was all that mattered. When he returned to New York from Honolulu, he promised her he’d change. So he stopped using Purell every time he touched something in public. (At least until he was out of Amy’s sight). He rode the subways whenever he was with her. He started using elevators. He even started driving again.

  (“Work!”)

  Amy had her theories, of course. He had told her about the sports memorabilia store, the one his mother bought from a former employer when he was eleven. The Point After, a tiny shop located in a small mall in Fairfield, where Craig had toiled away the last six years of his youth.

  (“Work!”)

  Sure, it was a hellish place for a child. A cage lined with banners and jerseys and baseball caps—a prison, really. A ten by twelve cell in which he spent his evenings and weekends during the school year, and in which he spent his days—ten a.m. to ten p.m.—during the summer months while the other kids went out and played.

  (“Work, you little son of a whore!”)

  Craig had had no choice, of course. And neither had his mother. She was a single parent. She already worked one job; it was only fair he worked one, too. There were times he didn’t want to, sure. Times when he would have preferred to die than sit alone in that cramped and cluttered, stifling store. But who would have worked the register?

  (“Work, you lazy little godless shit!”)

  The customers thought it was cute that he had such an important job at the age of eleven. They said it was just adorable. “Ain’t that the cutest gosh darn thing you ever seen, Ted? Well, ain’t it?”

  They didn’t know that on days Craig refused to go to the store, his mother chased him around with a hammer.

  #

  Despite her promise to put herself first, Amy felt herself hurrying back to the flat. Craig didn’t like dawdling. Don’t dilly-dally, he’d say. Don’t lollygag. He would pass it off as a joke, as he did with so many things these days. But Amy knew that he meant it.

  In three years she hadn’t been able to window-shop. Hadn’t been able to take long walks in the park. When she’d said she needed the exercise, he bought her a gym membership. When she started spending too much time at the gym, he bought her a treadmill.

  She slowed down. Looked down a narrow road that led in the opposite direction.

  She decided to go for a stroll.

  #

  Minutes passed like hours but the lift finally started moving again, slowly at first as though it were hanging by a single steel thread that would snap at any second. Then the lift resumed the pace it had exhibited before.

  Craig’s panic eventually subsided but the pulse in his ear did not.

  When he reached the main hall he found the movers. Three young men of various sizes, waiting outside with their hands in their pockets.

  “Let me see the contract,” Craig said to the one nearest the door. “What contract?”

  He was a large man in a yellowing tee shirt and worn jeans, sweating and smelling of smoke.

  “My contract with the shipping company,” Craig said. “Show it to me. Show me where it states that my property is going to be dumped in front of my building on the street.”

  The large man shrugged his shoulders. “Look, senhor. We just doing our jobs, okay? We empty the truck. You do what you want with your stuff.”

  He said it in a condescending tone, Craig thought. Delivered it with a condescending look, as though Craig were the one being unreasonable.

  “Get your supervisor on the phone.”

  The large man shrugged at him again. “Our cell phones no work in this area, senhor. There is nothing more we can do.”

  Craig gestured toward the building. “Come with me then. We’ll call from upstairs. I’ve got a phone.”

  The man frowned. Looked back at his two associates who were now pacing around the truck, one with a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. “Sorry, we no can do that, senhor.”

  “You can’t come upstairs with me for two minutes to make a call?” The large man shrugged again.

  One more time, thought Craig. Shrug at me one more goddamn time.

  He took a deep breath. He was a bit hungover, hungry and on no sleep. He wasn’t thinking clearly. This wasn’t the end of the world. A couple dozen boxes. Only half of them were heavy—the large ones and those that contained his hardcover books. Given an hour, he could lug them up himself. Once Amy was back, it would take them no time at all.

  “All right,�
�� he said finally. “Unload them.”

  It took the movers less than five minutes. They piled two dozen boxes at the foot of the broken stone steps. They wouldn’t even haul them into the lobby.

  Craig refused to sign their paperwork, but the large man didn’t seem to care. He simply shrugged again and said, “Suit yourself, senhor.”

  Craig turned around and stared at the boxes. Wondered if he could leave them here outside. Not in this neighborhood, he decided.

  The mover folded the unsigned receipt and stuffed it into his pocket. He said, “Good day, senhor,” spun around and started toward the truck.

  Craig reached out and caught him by his left forearm. The man lifted his eyebrow and pulled away.

  “What’s your problem?” Craig said to him. “Why wouldn’t you come upstairs?”

  He shrugged, glared over Craig’s shoulder at the entrance to the building. “No reason, senhor.” Then he climbed into the cab of his truck and started the engine.

  Chapter Ten

  Craig hauled the boxes one at a time up the steep wooden staircase, unwilling to risk the lift. By the fourth trip, his arms were sore, his legs burning. He was sweating profusely and running out of breath. Where the hell is Amy? he thought, heaving a box marked Craig’s hardcovers onto his right shoulder. What’s taking her so fucking long? Once the heavier boxes were upstairs, he began piling the rest on two, three at a time. He rested between landings and wiped the sweat from his eyes. Where is she?

  He pictured her at a payphone, the first call made to her mother. “Mom, I’m so sorry I left. I’m coming home.” Then to the airline, booking her flight. “First one out of Lisbon that you’ve got. No, it doesn’t matter which airport. Newark Liberty, La Guardia or JFK.” Next to a taxi service. “Please pick me up right away. I have an international flight to catch at noon.” Finally, another to her mother. “I’m all set. You can pick me up at the airport this afternoon…”

  Finally Craig pulled closed and locked the downstairs door and headed up with the last of their boxes. He set them on the floor of the living room, plopped down onto the couch, and wondered whether Amy was coming back to the flat at all.

  Maybe he was destined to be alone just like his mother. She was sixty-four and lived by herself in a large ranch-style home in central New Jersey. No friends, no family except for him. And even they hardly ever spoke. She was always at odds with her neighbors. Had no one to josh with, to shoot the breeze with. No one to call for help if help were needed. No one around to provide affection or comfort, not even an adoring pet. Especially not a pet.

  (“They shit everywhere.”)

  If Amy did indeed leave, the coming days and weeks would be like that horrible period in Hawaii. Sick all day, every day; exhausted, yet sleepless each night. Not eating, yet vomiting. Not drinking, yet drunk.

  Headaches, nausea, fevers. Loss of appetite, loss of weight. Constant panic, anxiety. Loneliness he hadn’t believed possible.

  Maybe he would go downstairs into the alley and collect that dog.

  Bring him up and nurse him back to health.

  (“They’re filthy fucking things. I won’t have a goddamn animal in my house.”)

  Craig pushed himself off the couch. As he did, the pulse in his ear started up again. It seemed to come and go more frequently today. Each time it went, he was all but sure it was gone for good. So when it returned he felt his stomach drop.

  He stepped over to the laptop. Opened it. Waited for it to “Welcome!” him. To tell him, “You’ve got mail!”

  He pulled up the control panel and cut the speakers off. Then he typed pulsatile tinnitus into the search engine. Five thousand, five hundred and seventy hits. He clicked on the very first one and scanned the page.

  It is strongly recommended that all individuals with pulsatile tinnitus locate an excellent physician with interest in the circulatory system and complete a thorough examination.

  In his ear, the pulse concurred. It thumped louder, as though it were an entity stalking toward him, its footsteps thickening as it approached. He scanned the possible causes again: arteriovenous malformations, vascular tumor, aneurism. Same as they were last night.

  Craig felt faint. His breathing slowed even as his pulse quickened. A cloudiness like last evening’s fog crept slowly over his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, felt himself fading out. He gently lowered himself onto the floor.

  That was where Amy found him fifteen minutes later. “What are you doing on the floor?” she said, jostling him.

  Slowly he opened his eyes. I have a goddamn tumor, he wanted to shout.

  (Or an aneurism.)

  Instead he said, “I was just taking a break from work.”

  (With an aneurism you go like that!)

  She felt his forehead. “You’re sweating.”

  He sat up. “The movers wouldn’t bring the boxes upstairs. I had to carry them all up myself.”

  She backed away. “You should’ve waited for me. I would’ve helped.”

  Craig reached for the chair and pulled himself up. “Where were you?”

  “I went to try to find us breakfast.” He sat on the chair. “Took that long?”

  She glared at him. “Then I went for a walk.”

  He didn’t respond. If he brought up the fact that she knew he was waiting here hungry, that she knew the movers were coming, that she could have shown some courtesy and gotten back here as quickly as she could, she would only accuse him of trying to control her, of restricting her from doing what she enjoyed.

  “And I couldn’t get in downstairs,” she said. “The door was locked and you have the only key.”

  “Why didn’t you use the intercom?”

  “Intercom? What intercom? There isn’t even a doorbell down there.”

  He shook his head. “There has to be. The movers called me from it.”

  “Go down and look. There’s nothing. I wouldn’t have stood outside banging on the door if there was an intercom.” “Who let you in?”

  She shrugged. “I walked around the back of the building to try to yell up to our window. When I came back around, the door was open again.”

  He looked around. His eyes rested on the two brown paper bags on the table. “What did you get us to eat?”

  She stepped over to the table and pulled down each bag, revealing two bottles of port wine.

  He looked up at her incredulously. “Nothing to eat?”

  “They didn’t have pound cake. I didn’t know what else you’d want.” He stared at the bottles, a grumbling sound emanating from his stomach. He bit down hard on his lower lip and didn’t say another word. “Have you heard from the landlord?” she said, breaking the silence.

  He touched the mouse, which wiped away his sky blue keep writing screen saver. He pulled up his inbox and scanned the email addresses and subject lines of his new messages. Nothing from Amaro Dias Silva.

  He shook his head. But as he was about to close out of his email inbox, one new message appeared. Sure enough, it was from Amaro Dias Silva.

  He pulled the message up as Amy sat down on the couch.

  My dear Sr. Devlin: Terribly sorry to learn that the flat is not to your liking. Of course I am willing to return your funds. Regret to say, however, that I am currently in Madrid on business and will not return until Monday. I realize this may create a great imposition to you, so I have arranged for my associate to drop by the flat with your funds. Unfortunately, he cannot do so before eight o’clock this evening. I hope this will not be too late. Please accept my apologies for any inconvenience this has caused. I wish you and your fiancée both the very best of luck. Yours truly, Amaro Dias Silva

  Craig read the message aloud to Amy.

  She didn’t say anything, just sat there and stared blankly at the far wall. There was a time when he thought he knew precisely what she was thinking, but not anymore—not since that shit she pulled in Hawaii.

  He stared at Amaro’s message on the computer, wishing he still had easy access t
o Amy’s email account. Maybe she had shot her mother a message from some local Internet café. Maybe that was why she’d been gone so long. But she had been changing her password just about every other week for the past couple years. Ever since that heated argument when he found that message to her ex.

  (She wasn’t only writing him. She’d seen him behind your back!)

  The argument had led to

  (your smacking her around)

  her attacking him. And his fending her off, her falling to the ground.

  (You tuned her like a piano!)

  Then she’d had the gall to call her mother, to accuse him of striking her.

  Since then he had obtained her password a few times. He’d looked over her shoulder and once asked her in her sleep. She eventually caught him and he had to resort to more drastic measures. A video camera, a computer program. He’d even gone so far as to place some powder on the keys.

  “Do you want to go out and look for an apartment today?” she said at length.

  He looked at her, tried to read her face. He almost asked, “For both of us?” but stifled himself. He didn’t really think he wanted an answer to that.

  Who was he kidding? He knew the answer. She was leaving. She had already booked her flight. The ticket wasn’t for today but for tomorrow. That was why she wanted to go out and look for a place. She would help him find one, maybe even aid him in getting settled. Then, once she felt good about herself again, she would pick up and leave.

  “I can’t. My credit and debit cards are gone. It’ll take a while to get replacements. I need that money back from Amaro before we can get another flat.”

  “We can look at least.”

  Craig gave it some more thought then shook his head. “Nah, that would be pointless. Let’s get our money back, then go out looking first thing tomorrow. With the money in hand, we shouldn’t have any trouble letting another flat.”

  She stood up and moved toward the bedroom while Craig closed his email tab.

  “Goodbye!”