The Flip (An Angel Hill novel)

by C. Dennis Moore

  He looked up and down the sidewalk, wondering where the gunman was. Mike hadn’t seen him, so it could be anyone. He needed to get off the street, but his car was clear across town. He ran to the house next door from the angry old man in the window and banged on the door, yelling, “Help, I need help, please, open up!”

  No one came to the door and Mike feared being out in the open more than he needed to, so he quickly ducked behind a porch, looking around nervously.

  Maybe he could get a ride from someone, if he looked desperate enough. Mike had given rides to people in need before, so hopefully some of that karma would come back on him.

  He ran to the corner, keeping his eye out for anyone who might be walking toward him. He would flag down the first car he saw.

  Christ, he thought, where is all the fucking traffic? He was going to have to go all the way to The Slant to find anyone. It was only two blocks, but that was two more blocks out in the open than he wanted.

  He had to sell it, he thought. If he sold the house to someone else and let them take it over, would it let him go?

  It hadn’t worked with Sean Ellis. He’d still been creamed all over the highway. But that could have been chance; it hadn’t killed him right away, he said it was, what, five years, since his girlfriend died, so it had left him alone that long, at least. And he spent his days across the park watching the house, so it wasn’t like it couldn’t find him.

  If he thought about it, what happened to Sean Ellis might have been just bad luck, wrong place, wrong time, and since he didn’t own the house anymore, he wasn’t under the curse.

  But Kevin hadn’t owned it, Paul hadn’t owned it, nor any of the rest of them. In fact, Brian owned the house now. Well, not now, he thought. Because there’s no more Brian.

  He saw a car turning off Ninth Street, onto Small Street, which Mike was passing now. His spirits rose and he ran out, waving his arms and yelling, “Stop, please stop! I need help!”

  The car screeched to a halt and he ran to the window. The driver rolled it down and Mike said, “I need a ride. Please, I’ll pay you everything I have on me.” He took out his wallet and handed over all the cash in it, which he thought was probably only about fifty bucks, but that was still more than he would pay for a cab, so he thought it was still a pretty good deal. “My friends have been shot. Do you have a phone?”

  The driver took the cash and said, “I’m sorry, no. But get in, I’ll drive you.”

  “Thanks, man,” Mike said and ran around to the passenger side.

  He dove into the car, looking around for trouble. He hadn’t gotten a look at the gunman at the gas station, but he knew he was out there somewhere.

  “I need to call the police,” he said. “My phone is at my house. I live up on Parade.”

  The car backfired, startling him. Mike looked out the window as they turned right on Tenth.

  “Just take Henry up to A,” he said. “You can get to my house from there. Shit, shit, I can’t believe that happened.”

  “Was that all the money you’ve got?” the driver asked.

  The question brought Mike out of his panic and he looked over, questioning the man with his face.

  “All the money I’ve got?” Mike asked.

  “Yeah,” the driver said, “you got any more than that? That’s not gonna go very far.”

  “What are you?” Mike started to ask, then he saw the gun pointed at him. He finally looked at the face of the driver. He hadn’t seen the gunman in the gas station, but something about the scar-like tattoos covering the face staring back at him told him this might have been Brian and Keith’s last sights on earth.

  “No,” Mike stammered, “I’ve got a little more. You want it? It’s yours, man, just get me home.

  “How much more?” the driver asked. Mike couldn’t take his eyes off that gun. Was this the house’s doing? Had it put them in this guy’s path? This was how it was supposed to end, wasn’t it?

  He swallowed and looked thoughtful, then said, “Another grand at my house.”

  “On Parade,” the driver said. “That’s what you said, right?” Mike nodded. “Okay,” the driver continued. “We’re gonna go there and you’re gonna get me all the money you have. Then I’m gonna leave and you can go on with your life, no problem. Deal?”

  Mike nodded, but he didn’t believe it for a second. This guy was too conspicuous with those tattoos. There was no way he was going to let Mike go, not as long as Mike could identify him so easily. He had to think of something.

  Okay, get home first. He had weapons at home. Knives, tools, lots of heavy things. And his phone. Just get home.

  The car squealed down the streets and Mike wondered how this guy made it around town without drawing constant attention to himself.

  They pulled up outside Mike’s house and Mike looked around for his neighbors, half-hoping he could get their attention and get some help, on the other hand half-hoping no one saw him because this guy obviously had no problem shooting witnesses. It was still early enough in the year that the sun was down by 9:00, so it was thankfully dark when they got there and Mike led the man to his door, nervously fumbling with his keys.

  He only had five keys on the ring, front and back door, car key, and front and back door to the house on Irving, but with this guy watching over him, the ever-threatening gun pointed at his side, he had a moment where he couldn’t remember which was the right one to get in the house.

  He almost tried to open the door with his Jeep key, but then his mind cleared a little and he grabbed the one right next to it, slid it into the lock, then opened the door.

  “Where is it?” the guy asked, pushing Mike inside ahead of him.

  “In the bedroom,” Mike said. He was lying, the only thing in the bedroom he wanted was his phone. But once that was accomplished, how was he going to handle this guy? He had no idea.

  “After you,” the man said.

  Mike walked toward the hallway, considered turning on the lights, then decided he knew this place better and would have the advantage in the dark, if he needed it.

  “Where in the bedroom?”

  “In the dresser,” Mike said. That was stupid, he thought. It was only going to take two seconds to realize he’d lied. He should have said it was someplace difficult to get to and bought himself some more time.

  But there was no time, he realized. Whatever he was going to do, he had to do it. He stepped into the dark bedroom and the man shoved him toward the dresser, saying, “Get it, hurry up.”

  Mike lunged forward with the shove and grabbed the phone from the charger before the man had a chance to see it, slid it into his back pocket. “It’s just in here,” Mike said. “I’ll get it.”

  The whole time his mind was running with the possibilities, taking a mental inventory of everything in the room, everything within reach, everything that might be heavy enough to lay this guy out long enough for Mike to call the cops.

  There was nothing. Literally. He wasn’t a decorator. His bedroom consisted of a side table beside the bed where his clock stood. He knew somewhere on his bed was the laptop he’d been on the night he left for Phoenix, but that was behind him.

  The dresser usually held a small dish where his wallet and keys were, along with whatever change he’d accumulated that day, and his phone charger. The dish may serve as a distraction, but the guy was still between Mike and the door and that dish wasn’t going to change that.

  He opened the top left drawer and pretended to feel around inside it, still thinking. He doubted the guy could be taken out with a rogue pair of boxers.

  Then he saw something, a shadow on the top of the dresser and he didn’t know at first what it was.

  The room was basically pitch black and when it dawned on him what he had, he grabbed Sean Ellis’s scrapbook in both hands and swung it up and around, catching the guy in the chin like an uppercut with a brick. The man was stunned and his head flew back on his neck, rattling his teeth. He fell into the side table and collapsed
and Mike lunged for the gun, trying to find it in the dark before the man got to it.

  He fell on top of him, kneed the man in the balls and hit him over the head again with the book, then once more to make sure he was knocked out. He got up, turned on the light and found the gun on the floor right by the man’s open hand.

  He stared at it, wondering if this was a trick. He would reach for it and the man would open his eyes, grab it, and shoot Mike point blank in the gut. Or worse, in the face.

  He slid his foot toward it, then kicked it out of the room and into the hall. Then he stepped over the man and moved to pick up the gun.

  It was a trick, though, and the hand clamped around his ankle and yanked. Mike’s feet flew out from under him and he fell face first into the wall, smacking his forehead on the way down, then again when he landed.

  The man was on him, then, climbing over Mike, scrambling for the gun. Mike slapped his hand on top of it like a trap, not letting this lunatic get it first. Then the guy was on his knees, straddling Mike’s back, and pummeled him with his fists, in the shoulders, the spine, the back of the head. Mike refused to give up the gun. He considered trying to turn it and aim at the man behind him, but knew as soon as it came off the floor, the guy would use that opportunity to snatch it from him. Mike rocked back and forth under him, trying to knock him loose or something.

  He worked his other hand under him and managed to lift himself off the floor just a little. He took a deep breath, then, with a yell, rolled himself hard to the left, knocking off his attacker and freeing himself.

  He leapt to his feet, the gun in his hand, and turned toward him.

  “Freeze!” he yelled.

  The man rose to his feet and asked, “Or what? You got the gun, so you’re in control?”

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “So do like I said and freeze.”

  “Shoot me,” the man said. “I’m right here, you can’t miss. I’m not going to freeze, so you’d better do it.”

  “Don’t test me,” Mike said. “Don’t fucking move.”

  The man took a step toward him. Then another.

  This was it, Mike knew. This was the house’s plan after all. It had put this man in their path and this was the one who was supposed to kill Mike and his friends. It had almost succeeded. But he had the gun now. And was he going to let this piece of shit just walk, let the police take him in, put him in a cell where he’d wake up every day and do things like eat breakfast, talk to people, read books, watch TV, breathe and enjoy the sun on his face?

  The house had almost done it, he thought. Almost. But I’m still here. And I’ve got the gun, now. And whether this guy was just a pawn or not, Mike’s best friends in the world were dead. Not just one of them, all of them. His father was in Phoenix, but in Angel Hill, Mike had no one.

  The guy took another step forward and Mike squeezed the trigger.

  The shot made him jump, and the man stopped in the hallway. It was so dark out here and Mike couldn’t see the man’s eyes, but he knew the look on that face had to be one of surprise. He really hadn’t expected Mike to do it.

  But what did he have to lose now? Anyway, the guy had murdered his friends, he was a trespasser, he had threatened Mike’s life. This was a clear cut case of self defense if Mike had ever seen one.

  The large shadow still blocked his hallway, so Mike shot him again.

  He heard the man let out a final breath, a tired sigh of air, then he fell forward. Mike aimed at the black shape on his floor and fired one last time into the back of the guy’s head. Now he knew there were no last minute lunges, so final jump scares before the end credits roll.

  This guy was dead.

  Mike stumbled out to his living room and collapsed on the couch. The gun fell out of his hands and hit the carpet.

  Then he fell forward, collapsing into his open hands, and cried. For his mother, for his friends, for Kevin and his crew. He even thought he might have a few tears to shed for Sean Ellis and what he had lost. Mike knew now what that had felt like.

  He cried for an hour and no one came at the sound of the shots. When he realized this, he decided this probably wasn’t the neighborhood he wanted to continue living in.

  What you’re doing is very stupid, Mike thought. Call the police. You don’t leave a dead body in your house.

  I know, he thought. And I will. But not yet. This is first.

  Why?

  Because it has to be.

  It was a beautiful night. The sky was an open blanket of black with a million stars. The lights of The Slant glowed even from three blocks away. He had walked to the end of his street and turned left on River Road, which ran parallel to Vogul for about three blocks, thereby also running parallel to the Platte River. He walked until he got to The Slant, then crossed the first chance he got, into Upper Hill Park, still known to most Angel Hill lifers as NIN Park even though Mike couldn’t honestly say which of the two, Upper or Lower Hill Park, had actually owned that name before it was changed.

  It didn’t matter. NIN Park or Upper Hill Park, it all led to the same place, up the hill to Irving. His car was still there. He saw it sitting there, silently, just waiting. And across the street from it, also waiting patiently, as Mike was sure it had done for a very long time, the house.

  He stared at it. The bay windows, black and empty, offered nothing.

  He went up to the porch, used his key to get inside. He turned on the light and sat on Brian’s couch.

  “What are you gonna do?” he asked. “Sean Ellis told me, it was in his book. All those people, all those lives, none of them died here. You don’t want your reputation sullied, is that it? You don’t shit where you eat.”

  He waited then, but no reply came.

  “Well try and take me, then,” he offered. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here now and you can’t touch me. If you want me, you’re going to have to get your hands dirty for a change instead of letting others do the work for you.”

  He stood up. The room felt smaller, suddenly. He looked around. He walked into the dining room and felt the temperature drop ten degrees.

  “No,” he said. “You won’t do it. Because if you kill me here, then everyone knows, and if they know, they stay away. If they stay away, how do you get fed? I don’t know what you’re doing, how you’re doing it, feeding on their souls or something, I don’t get it. But I know you need us. You need people in here, don’t you? You need them to come inside so you can latch onto them like a parasite and kill them once they leave.”

  He looked in Brian’s bedroom, then stepped into the new bathroom. He was still proud of the work they had done here. It almost worked. They were so close to pulling it off.

  “If you’re gonna do it, then do it,” Mike said. “But you do it with me here. And you show the world what you are. Because I’m not leaving.”

  He turned on the kitchen light. I love that backsplash, he thought. Glass and marble mosaic, what an awesome look. I would have used that again and again.

  “Come on, then.”

  He stood still in the kitchen and listened. The house was silent. The only sound was his breathing. He realized the cold spot in the dining room was gone and the kitchen felt uncommonly hot. Because you’re pissing it off, he thought, even though he knew how dumb that sounded.

  “Come on,” he repeated.

  He heard a sound, then. A heavy THUMP, like something falling. It was downstairs.

  “You’re trying to scare me,” he said. “You’re making me think things that aren’t real, like when you made me think the rooms were changing sizes. You did it to Keith, too, didn’t you? He said he saw Michelle here one night after she died. But I’m smarter now.”

  He opened the basement door and flipped on the light. He looked down. The basement was empty, he could tell it even from the top of the stairs.

  Nothing had fallen.

  “But I’m calm now.” He stepped out to the top of the landing. “I’m not lost. There’s nothing here that can hurt me. Not without h
urting you too. So you’ve got nothing.”

  He walked down the stairs, slowly, pacing himself, hearing his breathing get heavier as he fought to maintain that calm.

  At the bottom he looked around again. Still saw nothing.

  “I knew it,” he said. “Just another tired trick, like you played on me in the dark that first night. Breathing on my neck? I don’t think so now. Bodies in the walls? Not here. Just walls, floors, ceilings, and whatever chickenshit thing is hiding in the dark, too afraid to come out. I should burn you down.”

  The basement door slammed. Mike looked up.

  “Oh, that got your attention.”

  The light went out.

  “It’s just the dark,” he said. “You couldn’t hurt me before. You won’t now.”

  He climbed the stairs again, but when he flipped the switch, nothing happened. He tried to open the basement door, but it was stuck. He was locked in somehow.

  “You can only scare me,” he told the house. “You can’t kill me. Because they’ll find me, and then they’ll know. And you’ll be alone and weak. But if you let me out of here, I can stay, I can bring people here for you. Everyone I care about is gone, so there’s no one left for me to protect. Open the door and it’ll be open season for you. You can’t let them find me here, you know that.”

  Something breathed on him in the dark. He jumped, scared, and flung himself back, slipping over the edge and falling backwards down the stairs. Instead of flying to the floor, he crashed through the wooden stairs, hit the floor, landed on a jagged chunk of broken stair, which went through him, up through his lung and out his chest.

  He lay there feeling himself bleeding out, yelling inside his head, You can’t, they’ll find me, and they’ll know. You can’t do this, you’re only hurting yourself!

  He felt blackness surround him, felt himself sinking into a well of nothing inside his head. For a moment, it was almost like he could feel the life draining out of him like sand, slipping through his pores and falling away.