Year's Best Hardcore Horror Volume 2

by Wrath James White

  “Elevator?”

  “Right.” She aimed a finger-thumb gun at him. “Can’t put one in either, on account of all the rules around preserving heritage sites.”

  She reminded Tate of an anime character with her snub of a nose, crooked smile and eyes taking up half her face. Not much under that flannel, but from his vantage point three stairs down, she filled out a pair of black leggings just fine.

  Tate dropped his eyes to her shoes. He didn’t want to be that neighbor. Live-in management, the ad said. Probably she ran this place with her lumberjack boyfriend. He’d wear a matching flannel and carry a wrench the size of Tate’s leg over his shoulder. You’re thin … Tate sucked in his stomach as he followed her dainty ass up the stairs.

  On the third floor, she opened a door connecting to a hallway where sconces cast nominal light over the papered walls and stamped tin ceiling. She pointed to another door with a tarnished ‘9’ over the peephole.

  “I am,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “I’m Cymbria. Not used to introducing myself is all. Been ages since we’ve had a new tenant.”

  Tate scanned the deserted hallway. “You could hear a hair drop in here.”

  “Pipes make most of the noise in this place.” She pointed down the corridor. “Halls are L shaped. Around that corner there’s two more suites.”

  “Are there many kids in the building?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No,” Tate said, too quickly. “I saw a little girl, in the window out front.”

  “That’s the office.”

  “Oh.”

  Tate waited. Cymbria stared. Maybe she was a private person. The kid had the same hair and eyes. Could be her daughter.

  Without breaking eye contact, Cymbria stuck her hand down the front of her shirt and pulled out a key. “You want to do it?”

  The body-warm brass melted into his hand. He slid the key into the lock and opened the door to number nine.

  Crown molding joined yellow walls to the ceiling and a parquet floor gleamed in the afternoon light. Pink sofa, coffee table, and corner kitchen with a few cabinets and checkered curtains drawn across the plumbing beneath the sink. Tate poked his head into the bathroom, noting the old spotless fixtures. The bedroom had a southeast-facing window. Tate imagined the sunrise pouring onto the white duvet, spread without a wrinkle over the queen size bed.

  Cymbria’s shoes tapped along behind him. “Mattress is new and the sheets are fresh.”

  Tate waded through the mellow scent of floor wax. “This is …” Scotch. Single malt. Twelve years. “It’s perfect.”

  Cymbria clicked her heels together. “No place like home.”

  Tate chuckled. “Got a pen, Dorothy?”

  “Oh!” She clapped her hands. “You know that book?”

  “Saw the movie as a kid,” Tate said, digging in his satchel. “I’ll give you first, last, and a deposit right now.”

  “But you just got into town.” Her hands curled into fists over her stomach before she forced them down and smiled, her crooked mouth almost pretty. “Need help moving in?”

  “I’ve got a change of clothes and my laptop in the car. Once I bring those up, I am moved in.” A sheepish note crept into his voice. Tate herded it away. Wasn’t like he’d abandoned a flock of small children. If he wanted to drop everything and go on a vision quest that was his own goddamn business.

  Cymbria’s smile didn’t falter, but her throat rolled as though she’d dry-swallowed an aspirin. “There’s no rush, Tate. Make like a butterfly and settle. Drop the cheques by the office tomorrow. I’ll be around.” She retrieved another key from her shirt and before Tate could ask how many she had in there, she’d dropped the hot brass into his hand.

  “That’s for the front door.”

  “Okay?” He trailed her as she all but fled the apartment.

  “Welcome to the building!” She tossed another bent smile over her shoulder and the spring-hinged stairwell door shut behind her.

  “No place like home,” Tate muttered.

  He sprawled on the sofa, enjoying the silence, getting to know the smell and the light. When the sun began to sink he decided to grab his bag from the car. Just as he opened the apartment door a child’s laugh rang out, clear and silver.

  Tate stepped into the hall. “Hello?”

  Pattering footsteps. Tate wandered down and peered around the corner. Another hall with a window at the end, creating the illusion of being in a tunnel, or a mineshaft.

  Two doors, one on either side. Tate glanced back at the sunlight slashing through the open door of his own apartment. Three units to a floor then. That made for nine suites total. Number nine. The highest room in the tallest tower. The cherry in the Shirley Temple ordered by the vocally sober or tacitly pregnant.

  The floor creaked as Tate approached the window. Not a bad view. Streets lined with poplars, and the downtown skyline beyond. Tate liked the idea of living in an old building in a strange city. So long as that kid wasn’t running the halls at all hours. He turned from the window and when he rounded the corner, he found himself in the dark. The wall sconces had gone out, and the door to number nine was closed.

  ***

  Eighty-one squares on the ceiling, each stamped with concentric circles, like ripples in a puddle. Nine rows of nine. Tate lay on his back in the white bed and counted the moonlit squares again. He waited for sleep.

  “What the hell am I doing?”

  A reply came in the form of muffled groans and pops. The shuddering language of an old building tucking itself in for the night. Yesterday, Tate had responsibilities. He had roots. Now, he was alone in a strange bed in a strange place. No one demanding. No one needing. It didn’t feel good yet, but he expected that to change soon.

  Yesterday, he’d been at the bar, pouring and bussing on his own because surprise, surprise, Brad and Shelly both had family hurricanes blow in on the same night, which happened to be Thursday. The worst night in the industry.

  The shift started out okay. Tate traded syllables with the math teacher who shambled in every day at four to down a variable number of rum and cokes. Bacardi dark, no lime. He’d paid his tab, left his customary five-dollar tip and shambled out. Tate had an hour of quiet before Thursday People descended. Customers looking to start the weekend early, but with the responsible adult stick still wedged far enough up their rears to ask about gluten-free menu options.

  After that it was loosened ties, and high-heeled shoes dangling from painted toes. Embryonic infidelities. Cab sav and chard for the ladies, beer on tap for the gents, and a steady flow of gin and tonic filling gaps in the gender binary. Open tabs paid on plastic. Lime juice under his fingernails.

  Just after ten, some hipster sashayed through the door with his scarf-twirling entourage. Eyes glued to his phone, he typed one-thumbed while snapping his fingers in the general direction of the bar. He ordered a round of sidecars.

  Fucking sidecars.

  Tate threw his rag down and walked out.

  On everything.

  He’d meant to go outside for a few minutes, get some air. But then he’d dipped a hand into his pocket and felt his car keys.

  A few hours later, he stopped for gas. He threw his phone in the squeegee bucket. Sploosh. Gone. He didn’t know why, didn’t have an answer. Why? Why what? He didn’t even know the question.

  He just knew.

  That life was done. It didn’t exist anymore. He’d followed that broken line on the highway to a creaking pile smelling of damp wood and dust. Leighaven was creepy as hell, and the second he crossed the threshold, Tate knew he’d come home.

  ***

  Tate knocked on the office door. When no one answered, he twisted the knob and poked his head in. “Hello?”

  The suite was laid out like his but instead of a couch and TV, there was a desk with a printer, monitor, penholder, and a stack of unopened mail. Bookshelves stuffed with hundreds of paperbacks lined the far wall. The bedroom door was
closed.

  “Lost?”

  Tate spun around, nearly bumping noses with the man standing behind him. Hair the color of black coffee fell over large eyes set in a pale, angular face. Taller, broader, but the resemblance was unmistakable.

  “Sorry, you startled me,” said Tate.

  “Yeah, well.” The man shoved past Tate, setting his toolbox on he desk. He dropped into the chair and reached into a basket on the floor. A pair of knitting needles emerged, trailing a mass of yellow yarn. He began casting stitches on the empty needle, hands working at a tempo you could set a metronome by. After a dozen beats, he glanced up at Tate. “What do you want?”

  “Just dropping something off. For Cymbria?”

  The needles clicked. “You’re not sure?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You said it like a question.” The man glowered through the hair hanging in his eyes.

  “Rent, and deposit.” Tate pinched the cheques between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m the new tenant in number nine.”

  “Right. Number nine. Here to breathe some life into the place.” The man pushed his sleeves up his slender forearms and extended a hand, but not to shake. “Give ‘em to me. I’ll take care of it.”

  Tate laid the cheques across the man’s palm. “Wasn’t sure who to make them out to. Figured you might have a stamp or something.”

  “Tate Sutton,” the man read off the cheque. “What the hell kind of name is that? Tate?”

  Tate gritted his teeth. “And, you are?”

  A smirking version of Cymbria’s smile stretched across the man’s face as he flipped his hair out of his eyes. “I’m Will. And I’m the fixit around here, so if you got needs, lemme know.”

  Jäger. That would be Tate’s first guess, except tall dark and sullen here didn’t have the requisite neck tattoo. So, not Jäger, but something that made a statement. People like Will took up knitting for a reason. Otherwise, they’d be serial stranglers.

  “I’ll tell Little Sister you stopped by.”

  Tate headed for the door. “Good to meet you, Will.”

  “Welcome to Leighaven, Tater Tot. Enjoy our stairs.”

  The clicking of needles started up again as Tate closed the door behind him with more force than necessary. Blood pulsed hot in his ears. Tater Tot. Dick. There was no way Cymbria’s brother could possibly …

  Screwdriver. That was it.

  Perfect for Leighaven’s crafty maintenance man. Nothing said, I’m an alcoholic and I don’t even care that you know, like bottom shelf vodka with a splash of O.J. for breakfast. The get-it-done cocktail. That was Will.

  In the stairwell, water stuttered through the pipes running up the walls like painted snakes. Lights blazed, but Tate froze as a sense of darkness engulfed him. Surly brothers and grouchy plumbing aside, there was a sickness about Leighaven. Something chronic and crippling. He ought to run upstairs, pack his shit, and get the hell out. Or not. He had his wallet and keys in his pocket. He didn’t need anything else.

  He ought to leave. Right now.

  He tipped his head back, squinted at the ceiling three floors above, and knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

  ***

  Vanishing without a trace held a certain romantic appeal, but the last thing Tate wanted was to be reported as a missing person. The proof of life email he’d sent his second day at Leighaven wouldn’t hold them forever. Tate stared at the pre-paid cell phone in his hand and dialed.

  Brad picked up on the second ring. “Hullo?”

  “Hey.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Brad shouted into the phone.

  “Thought I’d check in. It’s been a few weeks.”

  “It’s been a month and a half! What the hell? What happened? Where are you?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just wanted you to know I’m okay.”

  “Well that’s real nice, Tate. Except Val’s worried sick, the boys ask about you every day, I’ve been tearing my hair out trying to run the bar by myself.”

  Tate envisioned his brother’s scrunched up forehead. “I know you’re pissed. I don’t blame you.”

  “What the fuck is going on?” Brad breathed heavily into the phone. “Are you in trouble? Is it drugs? Did you get a girl pregnant?”

  Tate chuckled. “No, Brad. Nothing like that.”

  “You’re really okay?”

  “I really am.”

  “Need money?”

  “I’ve got money.”

  Between his savings and a part-time gig shelving books at the downtown library, he had enough to live on and plenty of time for reading, jogging, exploring, and lately, writing. Thirty-five years of keeping his mouth shut had left him with a surprising lot to say. But not to Brad.

  “How are the boys? I miss them,” Tate said, aware that it wasn’t entirely true, but it seemed like the thing to say. Two minutes of conversation with his brother, and already, Tate was falling back on old habits.

  “If you miss those boys, man up and tell ‘em yourself,” Brad gruffed and then sighed again. “This isn’t like you, Tate.”

  “People change, Brad. Sometimes they have to.”

  “Look, I’m not even pissed, not really. But I trusted you to have my back, brother. You’ve let me down, you’ve let us all down …”

  Commencement of the ‘I’m not angry just disappointed’ speech had Tate appreciating Will’s brand of open hostility. He wished Brad would just give him hell. Then Tate could shovel it right back. Point out that it was easy to feel let down when you weren’t used to hauling your own goddamn weight. Remind Brad that until six weeks ago Tate always had his back. Always. But in the three decades prior, when exactly did Brad ever have his? Fat Tate never had anyone behind him. Because Fat Tate was the omega. Always.

  “A man works hard and takes care of his family …”

  Christ almighty … Tate pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Now, that means something to me, and it used to mean something to you …”

  He had clothes in the dryer downstairs. They’d be done about now. Brad went on scolding. Tate shoved the phone between the pink sofa cushions and walked out, shutting the door to number nine behind him.

  A blur whipped around the corner of the hallway. Shadows had a way of coming to life at Leighaven. Things moved. Loud cracks and what sounded uncannily like wordless shouting erupted at all hours, keeping him on his toes. Tate felt awake here. Present and engaged in a way he’d never before experienced.

  Fluorescent tubes buzzed on the basement ceiling, illuminating windowless cinder brick walls, painted an institutional green. Just a laundry room. Not like it had to be airy and tastefully appointed. Still, something a little less cryptacular would be nice. He’d only ever had reason to enter the laundry room but if he did take a stroll around the bend in the corridor, he’d be disappointed not to find a pair of skeletons tossing bourbon down their fleshless gullets and telling each other knock-knock jokes.

  A rivet on a pair of jeans branded Tate’s arm as he pulled his clothes out of the dryer. He wondered if Brad was still hectoring the recesses of the old sofa. With a smile in his heart, he picked up his full laundry basket.

  The lights stopped buzzing. Tate gripped the basket handles, his palms slick on the plastic. Fluorescent tubes flickered, and died. Darkness dropped like a black bag over his head.

  Tate’s breath rolled in his ears. Then he became aware of another sound creeping toward him. Around him.

  Pat, pat, pat.

  The lights crackled on. She stood in the doorway, the ragamuffin from the window, the girl with the silver laugh. Her little chest heaved as she breathed hard but noiseless. She smiled. If smile was the right word. It might have been, if not for the drool oozing through the gaps between her teeth, running over her chin and dripping onto the concrete floor. Pat, pat, pat.

  Tate followed the trail of viscous blobs over the floor where they led back to him. Circled him. Her ghoulish grin widened, then she turned and ran.

  “Hey.” Tate
chased after her and stepped into the stairwell, just in time to catch a glimpse of her scuffed, yellow rain boots. Her footsteps stamped up and around, up and around, all the way to the third floor, his floor, where he heard the door open and shut.

  Another face appeared over the rail at the top floor. Small face. Small boy. So, Tate thought, there are two of them.

  “Stay away from her,” the boy said in a pitchy snarl. He and the girl shared the same wild dark hair, and that attitude was all Will. There had to be some relation.

  “Lights went out,” Tate said. “I didn’t mean to scare her.”

  “Scared? Of you?” The little boy scoffed and turned away from the rail. Tate heard the door open and snap shut again.

  “Brats,” Tate muttered.

  When he reached the third floor, he heard no laughter, or disembodied footsteps. No sign of the kids. They had to live in one of the other two units on his floor. Tate unlocked number nine, stepped onto the sunny parquet floor, and left all consternation behind. He was glad he’d blocked the number to the burner phone and deactivated his email account. It was nice to come home and not dread sorting through messages. It was nice to come home.

  ***

  The office door was ajar, nevertheless he knocked.

  “Hi Tate, come on in.”

  He walked in to find Cymbria sitting cross-legged on the desk, dipping a graham cracker into a can of frosting, eyes glued to the tablet balanced on her knee.

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  “Lucky guess,” she said without looking up. She took a bite of the loaded cracker and sprayed crumbs as she whooped with laughter. She held up the tablet, showing him a video of a kitten wrestling with a balled up piece of paper. “Isn’t it the funniest?”

  Tate had opinions about the sort of people who watched cat videos. But it was hard not to smile at a kitten being a kitten. Just like it was hard not to laugh at Cymbria’s latest wackadoodle get up. Denim cut-offs over orange tights and pink Converse sneakers. She also wore a slouchy yellow sweater. A sweater Tate had last seen several weeks ago on her brother’s knitting needles.

  Little Big Bird’s eyes slid over him as she stretched out her endless orange legs.