A Date with Death

by Scott Colby

  He supposed it could’ve been worse. Abelia Felton always kept an even tone with Kevin regardless of how frustrated she became with him, like she knew he was a good person deep down who occasionally made a few mistakes and needed a little motivation to get things right. She didn’t seem to have the same sort of faith in anyone else in Harksburg. Abelia Felton had stormed Waltman’s front door more than once, and her dressing down of Doorknob at the town’s annual Fourth of July fireworks eight years ago was the stuff of legend—even though no one could remember exactly what Doorknob had done to anger Kevin’s mother.

  The porch swing beckoned Kevin’s exhausted body, the soft creak of its chains in the breeze a siren’s song like no other. He eyed it suspiciously. Besides the fact that it, too, had decided to duplicate itself and spin, the swing had a reputation as a cold, hard mistress that had ruined many a nap and enjoyed leaving painful creases in the flesh of those who spent too much time in her steely embrace. Kevin knew better than to spend the night in the porch swing—chances were sleeping outside would only postpone the lecture until the morning, when his mother would surely discover him while coming out to retrieve the newspaper. He needed to get inside, to his own bed, where he’d be able to combat any accusation of impropriety with the simple, reasonable excuse that he’d come home at an appropriate hour and done so quietly and politely so as not to wake the other member of the household.

  Kevin stared dumbly at the house for a few more moments before a brilliant idea twisted his drooping face into a big dumb smile: the Pussy Hatch! So named because he’d used it to sneak many a girl into his bed in his wilder, younger days, the ground-level window of Kevin’s basement bedroom would get him inside safe and sound. It had never locked correctly except when it froze shut, and he thought that unlikely given that it was the third week of September. A quick jiggle and it would flip right open. He just hoped he could still fit through it.

  “Ffffuck you, porch ssssswing,” Kevin slurred as he staggered into the driveway. He skirted his mother’s little white shitbox of a car as if walking a highwire in a windstorm, taking small, tentative steps as he wobbled precariously on the narrow strip of asphalt between the vehicle and the house. Banging against either, he knew, would bring his mother stampeding down the stairs, ready to clobber any ne’er-do-well she found traipsing about her property, an outcome that would ruin any chance Kevin had at getting close to a good night’s sleep.

  The Pussy Hatch was just beyond the car but prior to the garden hose dangling from an old metal hook that itself dangled from the side of the house. Kevin knelt awkwardly and examined the window. To the uninitiated, the lock would’ve appeared firmly engaged, but Kevin knew better. He pressed firmly against the bottom of the rectangular window, jiggled it to the right, then jiggled it back to the left. The Pussy Hatch opened with a soft pop, pivoting outward on hinges across its top, and he lifted it as high as it would go. This must be what mail feels like! Kevin thought as he slithered through the narrow slot feet-first. He inhaled deeply to squeeze his beer gut through. Kylie had warned him that he was getting a bit plump, but she was a dirty, two-timing slut and so her opinion didn’t count and Kevin didn’t miss her. Most of the time.

  Kevin’s feet sank into the lush carpet and he breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He turned, gently pulled the window shut, and reset the locking mechanism. Mission fucking accomplished!

  Navigating in the darkness wasn’t a problem. Kevin knew his way around that room like a concert pianist knew his way around a baby grand. To the right of the Pussy Hatch stood his desk, an ancient mahogany monster he suspected once belonged to his father which now played host to a broken PC and a pile of Cubs memorabilia. If he reached the shelves of soccer trophies on the far wall, he’d know he’d gone too far. The red lights of the alarm clock in the far corner to his left was a beacon beckoning him into the nearby bed—but he moved slowly, wary of the heavy chest at the foot of the bed on which he’d bruised many a knee. The faucet in the attached bathroom dripped at a familiar interval, a metronome of sorts that sped up whenever someone came down the stairs. He could’ve tapped and named each of the posters on the wall in turn blindfolded—Scarface, The Seven Samurai, Rounders—had anyone challenged him. Luckily, his mother had decided to leave his room untouched when he’d moved away. Sneaking in would’ve become prohibitively more difficult if she’d filled it with the Jesus crap that infested the rest of the house.

  He shucked his jacket and his jeans and pulled on the flannel pajama pants he kept at the foot of the bed. Good, God-fearing children who go to bed at reasonable hours—soberly, by the way, and only after thanking the Lord for every breath, sip of water, and bite of food said children had partaken of that day and as such would not benefit from a stern talking-to—always put on their PJs. Years of practice had made Kevin a master at avoiding his mother’s attention. Sometimes he thought he should publish a book on the subject—under a pseudonym, of course. He didn’t want his mother or Jesus to catch him.

  As he settled into bed and closed his eyes, a warm, familiar arm settled across his chest and a gentle hand reached up to caress his cheek. “When I heard you were coming back, I almost couldn’t believe it.” Her voice was like silk, soft and smooth and welcoming.

  Kevin rolled to his left and took the slender woman in his arms. As usual, she wasn’t wearing anything. She sighed as he traced a finger down her smooth back and grabbed a handful of her soft ass.

  “I missed you too, Nella.”

  Kevin must’ve fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Nella was not real; her visits were a recurring dream he’d had since his teenage years. Oddly enough, it was a dream he’d only ever had in that bed. Never had he dreamed of Nella while napping on the couch, while staying with friends, while living in his college dormitory, or while working and living in Chicago. He’d given up trying to explain it long ago.

  Definitely something in the fucking water. Something really fucking potent. Whatever it was had made Nella absolutely gorgeous, but also blue from head to toe, with glittering silver eyes, hair blacker than the surrounding night, and a set of gills that flared open in her neck when she came. He didn’t know what his subconscious was trying to tell him with this one and he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know.

  Her eyes twinkling in the darkness, Nella leaned in for a kiss. Sparks flared in Kevin’s mind as her supple lips caressed his own. He pulled her closer, letting the feel of her wash him clear out of Harksburg and onto another plane of existence.

  So what if she was blue and a figment of his imagination? Kevin wasn’t about to reject this: Harksburg’s most redeeming quality.

  — CHAPTER THREE —

  Wakey wakey!”

  Abelia Felton’s high-pitched screech jolted Kevin out of a deep sleep. A list of sounds that would’ve been subtler tumbled through his groggy mind: the failing brakes of a semi truck careening down a steep grade, a family of squirrels dying screaming deaths in the blade of a riding mower, Doorknob’s anxious pleas that someone let him out of his locker, a thousand sets of nails dragged down a chalkboard. Subtle, unfortunately, had run screaming from his mother’s personality a long, long time ago.

  Despite a throbbing headache, Kevin opened his eyes to a riot of color. At first, his vision blurred by sleep and alcohol, he thought he was looking at some twisted artist’s rendering of a melting clown. As the image solidified, its pink cheeks gaining depth, its ruby red lips defining an impassable boundary around too-white teeth, its deep brown eyes framed in blue shadow and long, flowery lashes, Kevin realized what was looming over him: his mother.

  This, he thought, must be what Jim Bakker woke up to every damn day.

  “Up and at ’em, sunshine!” his mother squealed with glee. “The Lord has delivered unto us another day. Let’s not waste it!”

  “G’morning, Ma,” he muttered, lest he receive a reminder on the importance of manners.

  She swung herself off the bed, straightened her turquoise suit and skir
t, and clasped her hands at her waist. Round but not overweight, Abelia was built like a fire hydrant: sturdy, low to the ground, and brightly colored. It always amazed Kevin how her hair, bleached blond and rolled into tight curls on either side of her cheeks, never, ever moved. It reminded him of a roof. Whether its unshakeable stability was thanks to gel or Jesus, he wasn’t sure.

  “Good morning, Poofy!” Kevin had been Poofy for as long as he could remember. He hated being Poofy. “Hurry and get dressed! Two of your friends are waiting for you upstairs!”

  He sat up, stifling a groan, and checked the big red numbers on the digital alarm clock atop the nightstand: 9:34. Too damn early. “Tell them I’ll be right up. Who is it?”

  “That delightful Roberts boy and your economics teacher from college, Professor Driff.”

  Kevin had never heard of a Professor Driff, let alone taken a class with him, but he hid his confusion. Over the years, Ren had honed a particular talent at inventing identities for individuals that wouldn’t pass Mrs. Felton’s muster. He’d once slipped a pair of strippers past her by claiming they were undercover police officers being interviewed for a school project. Professor Driff was likely either Ren’s new drug dealer, a pro-choice activist, or a Jew—all insufferable failures of character in Abelia’s mind.

  “Driff was one of my favorites. I’ll be up shortly.”

  “Well, be quick about it! It’s impolite to leave your guests waiting.” Abelia paused for a moment, and when she continued it was at a slower pace, her words dripping with melodramatic warning. “Favorite or not, this Professor Driff gives me a bad vibe. You know how good my intuition is.”

  Abelia could spot Satanists, Mormons, evolutionary biologists, and many other species of heathen from miles away. Her great ability to identify and avoid associating with the wrong people was a blessing she truly cherished and never hesitated to brag about. Ren had found it very useful in locating loose women. Every Tuesday night he drove Kevin’s mother to the grocery store. Ren pushed the cart and took careful mental notes about every harlot, tramp, and two-bit hussy Abelia pointed out. He’d had great luck with the two-bit hussies.

  “All college professors are a little off,” Kevin said as he swung himself out of bed. His stomach promptly executed a triple backflip, but he managed to resist the urge to vomit. “He’s just another flaky liberal.”

  His mother put her hands on her hips and harrumphed, signaling that she still didn’t like this Professor Driff character and, although she wouldn’t go so far as to expel him from her home, she’d be watching him like a hawk. That was the best Kevin could’ve hoped for.

  He covered the three steps from his bed to the adjoining bathroom in half a breath. “I’ll be up after I shower!” he called to his mother as he shut and locked the door. The sudden motion set his stomach back into its gymnastics routine and he gasped hungrily for air to delay the bile threatening to explode up his throat. The thin door didn’t stand a chance against puke noises, so he reached over and turned on the shower. The first splash of water cascaded onto the vinyl floor with a heavy crash just as Kevin turned and vomited into the sink.

  That bathroom had saved Kevin from many a tongue-lashing. Small and a bit cramped by bathroom standards, it nonetheless included a pedestal sink, a toilet, and a narrow shower. The tile floor was cold, it needed a fresh coat of white paint, the crapper occasionally flushed on its own, and keeping the silverfish at bay was a constant battle, but its distance from the parts of the house Abelia inhabited made it a great place for rinsing away any and all evidence of wrongdoing. In that cozy little room, Kevin had hidden women, disposed of alcohol, washed temporary dye out of his hair, and secreted away a live badger—Buddy, Harksburg High’s official mascot. He and that bathroom had been through a lot together, and he counted it as one of his best and most reliable friends.

  He spat the last tangle of viscous bile into the sink and washed it away, marveling at how what had been a mixture of beer, scotch, and cheap hot dogs somehow came back out tasting like gin. Maybe Kylie was right; maybe twenty-seven was too old for drinking and carousing. But that couldn’t be right, because she was a two-timing gold-digger and her opinion didn’t count, even if it happened to be correct—perhaps especially if it happened to be correct. Examining himself in the cracked mirror above the sink, Kevin was pleased to find that he was still just as tall, blond, and blue-eyed as he’d always been. Partying had yet to ruin his slightly above average looks, which meant it was probably all right to keep doing it for awhile longer yet.

  As Kevin undressed, piling his clothes atop the toilet seat in case any of the silverfish decided to take a morning stroll, he wondered what could’ve possessed Ren to come calling at such an early hour. Certainly, his friend was just as hung over. Maybe Ren wanted to confirm with Kevin that he’d also seen the strange incident with Oscar and Doorknob the previous evening—but he could’ve done that with a simple phone call, so why the visit? And who the hell was this Professor Driff?

  Kevin hadn’t expected his return to Harksburg to be this complicated. In no condition to think about things further, he wiped it all from his mind and climbed into the warm shower.

  — CHAPTER FOUR —

  Kevin blanched violently when he met Professor Driff.

  “G-g-good to see you again, sir,” he stammered as his fingers were crushed in a hard, firm handshake.

  “Likewise. I’m glad life seems to be treating you well,” replied the strange man who’d scared the shit out of Kevin in the woods the night before. He wore the same long black overcoat, but this time the tops of his ears were round. Had Kevin imagined that pointy bit?

  Ren sat on the far side of the long dining room table, wearing a smug smile Kevin wanted to scrape off of his face with a power washer. He wore a tweed suit over a crisp white shirt. Wide-eyed and alert, nothing in his bearing betrayed any lingering effects from last night’s activities.

  Kevin and Driff took their seats at the table as Abelia trundled in with a silver tray loaded with coffee and scones. “So, what brings you to our fair town, Professor Driff?” she asked as she set a steaming mug in front of each man.

  Driff pushed his spectacles up on his nose and examined the family pictures hanging on the nearest wall. “I’ve come to offer your son a job.”

  Kevin almost choked on his mouthful of coffee. “A job?”

  “A research position.” Driff’s attention had turned to the array of tiny Jesus figurines arranged atop a nearby hutch. He wrinkled his nose. “I’m investigating a rash of strange incidents in the Harksburg area. I’ve already retained the services of your friend Mr. Roberts, but I could use the assistance of one more good man.”

  “He pays promptly,” Ren said in between mouthfuls of scone, “and he pays very well.”

  Kevin’s mother regarded Driff with narrow eyes. “There can’t possibly be anything worth investigating in our humble town, Professor.”

  Driff fixed Abelia with a steely gaze that seemed designed to expel her from the room, but she held fast. “Have there been any unexplained or otherwise notable deaths around here lately?” he asked.

  Kevin froze. He’d seen two last night, prior to this strange man’s first appearance, but the deaths of Oscar and Doorknob hadn’t—for lack of a better term—stuck. Maybe those didn’t count. He doubted it. So did his stomach, which threatened to leap back into action with a bone-rattling gurgle.

  “Why, no,” Abelia replied. “Harksburg hasn’t seen a murder or a suicide in years, and that’s the way we like it!”

  Driff rolled his eyes—a dangerous move in front of Kevin’s mother—and took a quick sip of coffee. “Nothing odd about the obituaries in the paper lately?”

  “Seems the Lord is smiling on our little slice of Illinois,” Abelia chirped proudly. “I read the County Ledger every morning. There hasn’t been an obituary published since Sunday.”

  Driff locked his icy gaze on Kevin and smiled.

  Sunday. Three days ago. The day before Kevi
n moved home. Surely that was just a coincidence. Surely whatever the hell was going on wasn’t all his fault.

  Surely this was all a giant crock of shit.

  “No fucking way,” he muttered.

  “Kevin!” his mother hissed. “Language!”

  “You saw it with your own two eyes,” Driff said, “and the effect isn’t limited to your idiot friends.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” Ren said between mouthfuls of scone. “Nobody in the county can die.”

  “That’s impossible,” Kevin snapped. He turned to Ren. “I can’t believe you’re buying this guy’s bullshit.”

  Kevin’s mother slapped him on the back of the head. “Language!”

  Across the table, Driff sighed. “Well. In that case, let’s just cut to the chase.”

  Suddenly, there was a revolver in Driff’s hand, a silver six-shooter with a long barrel. Kevin never heard the sound of the shot or his mother’s ensuing scream. A brief flash of pain signaled the bullet’s impact with his forehead before the projectile ripped through his brain and put an abrupt end to all sensation. The force of the shot sent him careening backward toward the floor, taking the chair with him.

  When Kevin’s faculties returned a few moments later, he found himself staring down at his own corpse. Blood and brains oozed out in an expanding puddle around his head. The bullet must’ve passed clean through the back side of his skull. He looked oddly serene, he thought, for a man with a pair of holes in his cranium. Kevin himself felt weightless and buoyant, as if he were floating on the sea. Every nerve in his body burned red hot, but somehow it was comforting rather than painful. He felt free.