Horror Stories

by Liz Phair

  “That is such bullshit!” Aaron shouts at the television. “There’s no way, no way, that’s what happened. They expect us to believe that some cows or something over in Ohio fucked up the wires and now we’ve got this?”

  Matt and I shake our heads in disbelief. It seems perfectly obvious that the official stance is a cover-up for terrorism. In post 9/11 America, nobody believes we’re getting the real scoop from the news anymore.

  “I mean, are you telling me that’s how easy it is?” Aaron continues. “Why doesn’t China just attack us, then, if we’re so easy to take out. I mean, if the whole grid is that susceptible, a foreign adversary could just cripple us like that.” He snaps his fingers. “I mean, I don’t know, it just seems really fishy. Is all I’m saying. I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, no, this is the work of hackers, one hundred percent,” Matt agrees. “This is definitely cyber warfare.”

  I just want to go to bed and wake up and have everything back to normal again. I get a few hours of sleep, and Aaron wakes me up at four-fifteen in the morning to tell me that the makeup artist is here. “I let you sleep a little later,” he has the nerve to say. It’s a miracle that this girl showed up, but she lives in Manhattan, and her place is really close by.

  “What was I going to do?” She’s applying two different types of foundation to my skin while I hold still, trying not to yawn. The corners of my lips are twitching with the effort.

  “There’s no electricity in my place.” She dabs the cream on me with a moistened sponge. “If I’m just going to sit around the apartment twiddling my thumbs, I might as well get paid.”

  “Absolutely,” I agree. But I’m confused. “If you had no alarm clock, how did you wake up this early?”

  “I never went to sleep.” She grins, enjoying my reaction. She blots my forehead and nose with setting powder. “It’s no problem.” She shrugs. “If you think about it, would I rather lie there in the dark tossing and turning in the heat, not getting paid, or come here and hang out in your air-conditioning?” She laughs. “You know? Plus, I get a Good Morning America credit on my résumé.”

  She’s so pretty and demure. I would never expect her to have a hustler’s attitude. It’s inspiring. It makes me wonder why I’ve been reluctant to take control of my own career. As if looking deliberate about business is unfeminine.

  “I love what you’re wearing,” I say, staring straight ahead as she curls my eyelashes.

  “Thanks.” She smiles, genuinely pleased.

  “Would you mind if I copied you and wore a white tank top on the show today?”

  “No, not at all! I think that would be really cute.” She cocks her head, appraising her work. “You don’t want to look too glam when everybody else has had such a rough night.”

  “Yeah, exactly.” I breathe shallowly as she outlines my lips with a pigment pencil.

  The news coming from the television in the front lounge is grim. The anchors list the accidents and injuries that occurred overnight. They describe what happened to people who got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. People who tried to reach loved ones and had no way to ensure that they were okay.

  I feel guilty for having thought only about my own gratification last night. What am I doing pursuing this thing with Matt? Don’t I realize I’m playing with fire?

  “I think I’m in love with somebody who has a girlfriend,” I blurt out to this perfect stranger. I confess it because we’re women. Because it’s five in the morning. Because we’re in the middle of a national emergency with nothing but this bus and each other.

  “Do they live together?” The makeup artist doesn’t bat an eye. She goes straight to the practical.

  “Yes,” I admit.

  “That’s bad.” She shakes her head, like she’s been there before. She delicately blends bronzer over my cheekbones with the pads of her fingertips. “You can’t do that.”

  “I know.” I lower my head, ashamed of being someone who needs love instead of someone who already has it. She cups my chin with her hand, lifting my face up to hers so she can finish applying my lipstick. I can’t hide from her gaze. I know what I need to do. As long as Matt and his girlfriend are together, I vow, nothing will happen between us. If they break up, that’s a different story.

  I wish I could tell you everything turned out for the best. Matt and his girlfriend did break up. He and I did start dating. For two years we had a sweet, fun, erotic, and volatile relationship that ended miserably. Matt’s ex called me once, out of the blue, after he and I had been together for a few weeks. I listened to her accusations and answered them as fully as I could. I was admittedly guilty of allowing things to progress, but I thought I was safe, because, physically, we didn’t cheat. She thought otherwise.

  We show up to the GMA outdoor gig on the backs of motorcycles. Once again, rock and roll supremely adapts to adversity. We look freshly showered, happy, and professional. Matt and I play two of my popular radio songs, and everybody wants to know what our secret is. How did we pull off such a sparkling performance on time, and under these difficult circumstances? I want to say, “It’s because we’re in love.” Instead, I act nonchalant, like Courtney Taylor-Taylor.

  As soon as we get offstage, I pass out sunflowers to all the little kids in the audience. It is a glorious, spectacularly clear summer morning, and I feel blessed to have made it through the night, to have had Matt by my side as a companion and protector. I’m thrilled to know that he shares my feelings and yet we didn’t cross the line. We’re safe. But there’s a catch. The way Matt and I stuck together during the blackout confirmed what everyone had only suspected. Our burgeoning romance is now an open secret. We’ve made our feelings everyone else’s problem.

  Coping without electricity for a second day sucks. None of the challenges are novel anymore, and everyone’s frustration is piling up. My quadriceps burn as I climb the stairs in my hotel. Twenty-four hours’ worth of room-service trays are stacked to the ceiling on eight-foot-tall catering carts in each hallway. The stink of rotting food is nauseating. I think I’m going to puke from the smell. I’m tired and dehydrated. I’ve walked countless miles around this city since we got here yesterday. In the midday heat, New Yorkers are literally wilting. People slouch down or stretch out on every available surface in the shade.

  I can’t wait to get out of here. Everything that was exciting about being trapped in the Big Apple last night suddenly sucks, because after our performance, Matt is acting distant and professional again. He feels guilty and under scrutiny from his brother. When I asked him what was wrong, he said he thought I should be the one to put the brakes on our attraction, that men are biologically bound to try things and women are supposed to be the gatekeepers who block their advances. I think that attitude is bullshit and sexist. He’s responsible for his part in wooing me. My hopes for us are now just little blobs of mercury swimming around the ceiling of my skull with nowhere to go—like air bubbles trapped in a diving bell.

  I’m awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of strange voices in the house. My bedroom is right off the kitchen, and I can hear everything through the thin walls. It’s not unusual for my housemates to bring their friends or dates home this late, but I don’t hear any familiar voices. It sounds like three black guys arguing.

  I stuff a pillow over my head, hoping they’ll go away. I really need to get some sleep. I’ve got exams tomorrow. They don’t seem to have any consideration for the hour, but maybe they don’t know there’s someone sleeping in this part of the house. Exasperated, I pull on some jeans, and I’m about to go out and tell them to keep it down when the tone of the argument escalates. I freeze, my hand outstretched toward the door. The hair on my arm stands up. I’ve gone as rigid as a statue, listening.

  This is not some collegiate debate or drunken disagreement. These guys are angry, threatening violence. There’s real teeth behind their
words. I don’t understand what’s happening. Do they even go to this school? What are they doing here? Who brought them, and why are they so pissed off? The loudest one is cursing and pacing back and forth, shouting that he’s going to fuck somebody up. The other two are rifling through our kitchen drawers. What are they looking for—a knife? I’m afraid to move, in case a floorboard creaks beneath me. Only a few feet separate us, but I don’t think they know I’m here. I don’t think they realize they’re being overheard.

  They stride boldly through the house, unconcerned about the noise they’re making. I jump when I hear the sound of glass breaking in the living room. My mind races, trying to identify the object. Then I hear more glass being deliberately shattered. Every high-pitched, splintering crash goes through me like a shock wave. They’re smashing all the art on the walls. They’re moving through the downstairs rooms with some kind of bat or club, systematically demolishing our property. I start shaking like I’ve never shaken before, my whole body vibrating from head to toe.

  At this point I know they’re not students. Nobody enrolled at Oberlin would destroy those pictures. The Allen Art Museum has an art rental program, low-cost, five dollars a piece, that signs out authentic Picassos, Renoirs, Matisses, Monets, Warhols—you name it—to students, to hang on their walls for the semester. It’s mostly sketch work and minor prints, but they are actual, irreplaceable, hand-of-the-master creations. It’s a revelation at nineteen to be entrusted with the output of artists you are currently studying in art history class. My housemates and I have at least four or five pieces hanging in the common area, as well as several more in our bedrooms. These guys aren’t here to rob us, though. They’re here to break shit and fuck us up.

  I hear them coming back toward the kitchen. I panic, backing away from the door. It’s too late to run. I search around for somewhere to hide. I consider covering myself with blankets or crouching down in the closet, but it’s pointless. They’d find me, and then I’d be trapped. When they smash dishes against the wall, I feel it reverberate through me. I’ve never confronted a truly ruthless aggressor, and I can’t think straight. The tremors are so intense that I can barely coordinate my movements. If you’ve never experienced shaking like this, it’s qualitatively different from shivering or trembling. It’s faster, deeper, and totally beyond your control. It’s the body’s response to imminent injury, and it freezes you, interfering with your fight-or-flight instinct.

  Standing there in the middle of the room waiting to get my ass kicked, I keep hoping I’ll hear police sirens. I can’t get to the kitchen phone, but I assume someone on the second floor has called them already. Where is everybody? They can’t possibly be sleeping through this noise, but I don’t hear any of my housemates moving around upstairs. Nobody is coming down or challenging the intruders. How can all six people I live with be out at the same time in the middle of the night? I feel like I’ve woken up in the Twilight Zone. It doesn’t occur to me that they might be in their rooms, frozen in place like I am.

  So this is how I die, I think. I’m not ready. I hope they don’t rape me, too. That’s when I remember last fall’s demonstration to protest violence against women. Hundreds of students and townspeople marched through the streets of Oberlin carrying candles and chanting, “Take back the night!” We gathered in the town square to listen to the accounts of sexual assault survivors and domestic violence victims, and to decry the way women are conditioned to accept fear as a normal part of living in our society.

  The administration responded by installing a dozen telephone boxes all over campus so you could call security if you felt threatened, or thought you were being followed. I have a stalker at the college, so I’m grateful every time I pass a little blue light, glowing in the darkness. One of these emergency posts is clearly visible through my bedroom window, less than fifteen yards away.

  I tiptoe to the other side of the room and brace my weight against the wide window frame. Placing my fingertips beneath the brass lifts, I pull upward, grimacing as the old wooden stiles squeak in their grooves. The voices outside my door go silent. I hold my breath, praying. My hands are shaking; my legs feel like rubber bands. I’m expecting the intruders to burst through the door behind me at any minute. In a herculean effort, I heave the heavy sash upward, causing a terrible, scraping squeal. I scramble out the window, drop five feet to the ground below, and run barefoot across the wet grass to the emergency phone.

  “Please help me.” I crouch behind the narrow pole as though it could conceal me from view. “Some men broke into Blue House. They’re smashing everything. I’m scared they’re going to kill me.” The officer asks for my address, but I don’t know it. Maybe I never did, or maybe I do and I’m just too frightened to recall. “It’s Blue House. It’s down Main Street….” I’m racking my brain, looking around desperately. “It’s by the stream and the bridge.” Nothing I say is helping, but they already know my location.

  I expect the attackers to come bursting out the front door at any moment and chase me down the sidewalk, but the neighborhood is absolutely quiet. No lights are on in any of the houses, no cars are out in the streets. Not even the crickets are chirping on this moonless evening. It is a perfectly still night. I hear sirens coming from a long way off, and my panic subsides. Then I feel something brush against my leg, and I nearly jump out of my skin, tumbling backward onto the ground. It’s a sleek, sinewy black cat with apple-green eyes, purring ferociously as it paints its shoulder back and forth across my thigh.

  The vandals have vanished by the time campus security searches the house. The patrolman asks me to describe the suspects. I tell him that I never saw them, that I only heard them. I can’t decide if saying they were black is valid or racist. “I think they were African American,” I say finally, after recounting every other detail of the incident. As soon as I hear the words come out of my mouth, I feel like I’ve stepped over an invisible line. I feel white, in a way that I didn’t at the time of the break-in.

  Linguistic profiling is potentially a big deal anywhere, but at Oberlin College, it’s a powder keg. This is a progressive liberal-arts school, and they don’t let any form of discrimination slide. It’s the 1990s. If you throw race into the mix, the whole ship tilts. If the police start questioning only black guys because of something I said, it could affect the whole community. In small-town Ohio the headline might read, “Three Black Men Break In to Student Housing, Causing Property Damage, Distress to Occupants.” Racial bias in crime reporting is commonplace. Editors get their copy straight from the police sheets.

  Even though I’m white and middle class, I don’t sit in the lecture halls thinking history is my story. I don’t feel like my future is in any way guaranteed. I expect to work twice as hard to be acknowledged in the art world simply because I’m female. How does that make me the oppressor? Why shouldn’t I say who I think the assholes were who broke into my house? They broke the law, but now I’m feeling guilty? I have this knot in my throat again, worrying that I shouldn’t have said anything I couldn’t prove. I know a lot of white guys who sound black because they love gangsta rap. The truth is, in 1989, I still expect blacks to be more violent than whites. That comes from living in segregated cities. That comes from my grandmothers. That comes from a lot of places it shouldn’t.

  The Spike Lee film Do the Right Thing came out in the summer of 1989. I went to see it with a friend at a theater in Evanston, just north of Chicago. The audience at that showing was mostly white, and the movie had a profound effect on the viewers. They stared at the screen in rapt concentration. Lee’s colorful portrayal of a Brooklyn neighborhood at a cultural flashpoint was Shakespearean in the scope of its social commentary. Even the obviously funny parts only got subdued laughs out of this audience. They were overawed by the message, and alert to any hint of accusation. Their bewildered faces after the movie ended confirmed for me that we’d just witnessed something extraordinary.

  A month l
ater, I watched the same film at a midnight screening in Times Square and had a completely different experience. This audience was entirely black. My friend J.P. and I were the only white people there, as far as I could see. The crowd roared with laughter from start to finish—calling out and engaging with the action on screen, responding to the dialogue as if they were cast members. Every so often I would look over at J.P. in the dark, my eyes widening, cracking up along with everybody else. My expression was like, Can you believe this shit? It was such a wild, joyous feeling. It’s amazing how differently the two groups reacted to the same story.

  After a brief investigation, police establish that the men who wrecked our house are indeed students—members of Oberlin’s basketball team. I’m dismayed, because it doesn’t seem like the college or the police are going to do anything. No one will be formally charged. The administration wants to keep the matter private—and, incomprehensibly, the disciplinary board is making us, my housemates and me, pay for the broken picture frames. Insurance will cover the cost of the art restoration, but we, the residents of Blue House, will split the bill for repairing the drywall, repainting the rooms, and replacing the art frames.

  I don’t understand how this was the committee’s decision. I wasn’t even there at the hearing. How am I going to get stuck with the bill for an event in which I was traumatized, and that I had no part in instigating? It feels incredibly unfair. My housemates aren’t contesting the decision—partly because, as it turns out, they know what provoked the midnight sortie, but also because everyone in this house apart from me is wealthy, and they’re accustomed to using money to insulate themselves from conflict. This semester, my roommates are a bunch of trust-fund babies. I like them all, but I was grandfathered in after spending the fall semester away in New York City, working as a studio assistant and living in the East Village—on Eleventh Street, behind St. Mark’s Church.