Ink

by Damien Walters Grintalis

  Once they’d ordered their food, he took her hand and kissed the top of it. “I meant what I said the other night,” he said against her skin.

  “I know.”

  “I just didn’t want you to th—”

  She pressed her fingertips to his lips, cutting off his words. “I didn’t, and I meant what I said, too. I wouldn’t say something like that if I didn’t.” She took her hand away from his mouth. “You have huge circles under your eyes. You’re not sleeping well, are you?”

  Jason shook his head. “No, between dad and the weird kid, I’m not.”

  And the nightmares, he couldn’t forget those, but he kept them to himself.

  Mitch frowned. “What weird kid?”

  “The kid who lives across the street from me. The one who looked in the window that night.”

  “Oh, that kid. Has he been peeking in the window again?”

  The kid’s dull eyes hung in Jason’s memory. Why hadn’t anyone noticed just how far from normal those eyes were? “No, but I caught him in my backyard, and he’s been watching me,” Jason said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “And some neighborhood animals have gone missing. I think he might be responsible.”

  “Responsible?” Mitch asked. “In what way?”

  Jason looked into her eyes. “In a serial killer-in-training way.”

  The waitress brought their appetizers over, then a busboy refilled Jason’s almost empty water glass, a glass he didn’t remember drinking from.

  This is not a good dinner conversation at all.

  “What was he doing in your backya—”

  It was his turn to press fingers to lips. “No, I’m sorry I brought it up. We can talk about it some other time. I don’t want to ruin dinner, okay?”

  She kissed his fingertips and smiled when he took them away. “Okay.”

  “Close your eyes,” he said when they were finished with the appetizers. “And hold out your hand.” Mitch giggled, but she did both. With a shaking hand, Jason placed the key in her palm. “Okay, you can open them now.”

  She looked down at the key, frowned, then smiled.

  “I thought it might come in handy sometime,” Jason said. “It doesn’t mean we’re married or anything.”

  Mitch laughed and curled her fingers tightly around the key.

  7

  After dinner they took a walk in Fells Point. Music drifted in the air from the bars around the center square and groups of patrons stood outside on the sidewalks, smoking. Five motorcycles roared by, filling the night with exhaust and engine noise.

  Mitch kept her hand in his as they walked. “So tell me about this kid. He was in your backyard?”

  “I found him there the other day, crouched down by my porch. He ran away before I could ask him what he was doing. I thought at first he might be looking for you, but the driveway was empty, so he knew I wasn’t home.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “No, he wasn’t really doing anything. I figured I’d talk to the parents first. I just have to figure out what I’m going to say.”

  They sidestepped a girl who tottered by on high heels, trailing the sour smell of vomit.

  Mitch leaned up against him. “How about ‘your kid’s been looking in my windows and I found him in my backyard’?”

  Jason pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Several shouts of approval rang out and when they parted, a group of guys standing on the corner raised and shook their fists, grinning. Mitch’s cheeks turned pink.

  “What was that for?”

  “No reason at all.”

  They crossed a street still lined with cobblestones from an earlier era, passing by the same drunk girl. She stood, swaying, in the middle of the street, trying to pull off her heels, ignoring the blare of a car horn. They stepped up onto a curb and Jason stopped, looking up at the street sign—green with white lettering, like every other sign in the city: Shakespeare Street.

  “Do you mind if we walk down here?”

  Mitch scratched the back of her neck and peered down the street. “Is there anything down there? It just looks like old buildings.”

  “Maybe,” he said, forcing his lips up into a smile.

  Their shoes made little noise on the pavement, and the bar noise disappeared into a muffled hush behind them. The darkened windows of the buildings loomed like giant, unseeing eyes, and Jason fought a wave of unease, but if Mitch felt anything, it didn’t show.

  And what was he going to say when they get there and saw that blank brick wall? What was he going to tell her? He got his tattoo in a shop that didn’t exist? Impossible. He didn’t see it the other night because he was upset, then the homeless man showed up, and things got weird.

  The light from the streetlamps didn’t illuminate the street; they filled it with shadows. Farther down, the glow from the streetlamps vanished into gray as if the street just stopped.

  “Why so quiet?” Mitch asked.

  He kept his voice low. “I don’t know. Just thinking, I guess.”

  She pressed her shoulder up against his. “The buildings are different on this street. I don’t think I’ve ever come this way. See the arches above the windows?”

  Jason tipped his head back. “Yes.”

  “I know my street doesn’t have them. I don’t know, it makes them a little…creepy. They all look empty, too.”

  Another wave of unease slipped under his skin.

  Maybe the buildings are different because this street is different. Maybe we’re not in Fells Point anymore. Maybe this is one of those streets in between the real streets, just like Sailor’s shop is between the real buildings.

  He laughed at the absurdity of his own thoughts.

  “Okay, what’s so funny?”

  “I was just thinking this is kind of stupid. There isn’t anything down here, after—”

  1301.

  The café. The closed café. He didn’t think it was ever open. It was an illusion, like the fake western towns in the theme parks. Maybe none of the buildings were real.

  “Jason?”

  He’d stopped right in front of the café. If he took another step, he’d be in front of 1305.

  But there’s nothing in between. Just a space where the door should be.

  “Jason, is everything okay?” A crease marred the skin between her brows.

  Just take the step. Just one step.

  His right foot lifted, as if in slow motion, swung forward, and came back down, then the left foot—up, over, down. A thin trail of laughter slipped from his lips. A door with faded gray paint. The old brass handle. The weathered sign. The numbers. 1303. No need to step back and stare. No need to touch palms to brick. The entrance sat exactly where it should be, because doors didn’t disappear.

  Mitch had a half smile on her face, but the crease remained—a tiny frown of worry. “What?”

  “This is the tattoo shop. Where I got mine done.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes.” Jason looked over his shoulder. Shadows lined the street, but no people, homeless or otherwise. His arm gave a tiny throb of pain and he rubbed it, hard.

  “It looks abandoned.”

  “That’s what I thought, too.”

  Mitch stepped back, close to the curb, and looked up. “It’s weird. I can’t tell which windows belong with what door. It’s like they’re all part of the same building. They’re all dark, too. The shop must be closed.”

  Jason stepped closer and stretched out his hand. For one split second, his hand passed through the air where the handle should be, and the hairs on his arm stood on end, then his hand touched the brass, the metal warm under his hand. His arm throbbed again. It would be locked, but it was okay because now he knew the shop was really there. He pushed. The door swung open with a low creak, and Jason jumped.

  Mitch giggled. “I guess it’s open after all.”

  The hallway appeared exactly as Jason remembered. Pale gray walls, worn steps, narrow stairs and the sickly yellow lighting. Dim lighting
. Shadows concealed the top of the stairs. All the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention.

  “So, are we going to go up?”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Sure. I want to meet this guy,” she said, but her voice held hesitation.

  She doesn’t want to go. If I just tell her we should go, she’d say okay. And I should, but I want to. I think.

  Jason crossed the threshold first. As he stepped up onto the first step, Mitch slid her hand into his. The yellow light turned her eyes green; something about the color struck him as oddly familiar, but he brushed it away. Another jolt of pain, small and sharp, burned in his arm.

  “Ewww, mold,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You really had your tattoo done here?”

  “Yes,” Jason said. “But the shop doesn’t look like this at all.”

  The steps creaked and groaned as they went up. With each step, Mitch’s grip grew tighter. Jason kept his eyes forward, refusing to look at the swirling wallpaper; the faces could move all they wanted.

  “Ugh,” Mitch said in a whisper. “My grandmother had wallpaper like this in her bathroom. I hated taking a bath at her house. The paper always looked like faces watching me. It was creepy as hell.”

  Jason didn’t know how many steps they climbed when Mitch stopped. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ears and frowned. “It’s weird. Doesn’t it feel like we’ve been walking up a long time? What floor is the shop on?”

  “I don’t remember,” Jason said. He didn’t remember the staircase being so tall or so narrow. He and Mitch’s shoulders touched, even though he stood one step ahead of her.

  This isn’t a good idea. We should just turn—

  They reached the landing before the little voice in his head could finish. Mitch bumped into him and giggled. His arm ached, a short pulse of pain. As he gave it a rub, he looked over his shoulder; the stairway down stretched past the light. When he raised his right hand to knock, she gave him a small tug.

  “Do you smell that?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Like something burning.”

  Jason sniffed. “I smell something, but not like burning exactly.”

  He wasn’t sure what he smelled, but he had a sudden image of billowing clouds of oily smoke and a huge fire. Mouths open in silent screams. Fresh pain bloomed in his arm.

  Mitch leaned over and whispered in his ear. “I think someone is in there. Listen.”

  He did.

  A muffled step.

  “Let’s go,” she said in a husky voice.

  A soft thump.

  “Please.” She tugged on his hand again, harder.

  “Okay.”

  Mitch went down the staircase first. Her hand held his in a grip strong enough to make his fingertips tingle. When they got to the bottom, Jason thought he heard the creak of a door.

  Behind us, he’s behind us.

  Mitch pushed on the door.

  But I didn’t close it.

  “Jason, it won’t open,” she said in a high, thin voice.

  He grabbed the handle and pushed. It didn’t budge.

  Won’t open.

  A strange sigh drifted down from the top of the stairs. A sigh of anticipation? He pushed the door with his shoulder.

  We’re locked in here.

  Another sigh, low and wet. He pushed the door again and another voice, his father’s voice, piped up.

  You’re not locked in. The door swings in, not out. You can push it all you want. You need to pull, son.

  “Mitch, step back, okay?”

  She turned her eyes to his. Her breath came in quick little gasps.

  “The door, it opens in,” he said.

  Comprehension dawned in her eyes, and she stepped up onto the first step. He pulled on the handle, but the door didn’t open.

  Maybe we are locked in.

  A chuckle, deep and throaty.

  “Hurry,” Mitch said.

  He pulled again, and the door opened with a shriek. They spilled out of the doorway, and as he yanked the door shut behind them, the pain in his arm retreated.

  Mitch burst into laughter. “That was crazy. I swear I heard someone in the hallway.”

  Jason wiped his palms on his jeans. “Yeah, crazy.”

  For a minute, we were locked in. The door didn’t swing in or out. And that laugh. I know I heard it.

  “Was it that creepy before, when you got your tattoo?”

  “Not like that.”

  “They say there are lots of ghosts in Fells Point. Maybe one hangs out here. The ghost of tattoos past.” She smiled, then dropped her voice to a low whisper. “Maybe someone died while getting a tattoo, and his spirit lingers on, to warn away the living. Of course, there is another explanation.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t know. You might not be able to handle it.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s an old building, and we heard a mouse or a rat.”

  But rats don’t laugh.

  “Anyway, things always seem creepier at night,” she said and grabbed his hand. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  But halfway down the street, Jason couldn’t resist the urge to look back. Nothing moved, human, mouse, or otherwise.

  8

  Later, naked beneath the sheets in her bed, Mitch touched his arm. “What happened?”

  “What?”

  “The scratch on your arm.”

  Jason pulled her closer and kissed her cheek. “I had a nightmare about my dad and scratched myself in my sleep.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Did you have nightmares after…”

  “My brother? Yes, I had some, but mostly I just couldn’t sleep. It’s funny, sometimes I dream about him now and when I do, the dreams are so vivid I wake up thinking he’s still alive. Dreams are powerful things.” She ran her fingertips over the tattoo, then hissed through her teeth and pulled her hand away.

  Jason half sat up. “What’s wrong?”

  Her eyes were wide. “I don’t know. It felt like your skin moved.”

  Frank?

  Their eyes met and held, then she laughed and pushed him back down. “I’m being silly. I guess I still have the creeps from the hallway. Tattoos don’t move. It was probably a muscle spasm. Did you feel anything?”

  “No, just your hand.”

  She pressed her lips to his and put her hand back on the tattoo. “Nope, nothing in there but you.”

  Later still, with Mitch fast asleep beside him, he placed his palm flat against his upper arm for a long time. Finally, he rolled over on his left side and closed his eyes. Tattoos didn’t move; they were just ink. Right before he fell asleep, his father’s voice drifted in, faint and whispery.

  Didn’t you read the fine print?

  Dreams were powerful things, Mitch had said, but what about nightmares?

  9

  Jason sat on his front porch early Saturday evening and watched the gray house across the street. The windows were dark and the driveway empty. His laptop sat on the other lawn chair, forgotten for now. A young girl with hair the color of coffee laced with cream walked up the sidewalk, handed Jason a folded sheet of paper with a shy smile and raced back down to her waiting parents. They lifted their hands in greeting, then walked down to the next house.

  Please tell me it’s not another missing cat.

  It wasn’t. The monthly neighborhood newsletter contained the customary reminders of recycling pickup day and recommendations for lawn services, but when he flipped the paper over, his breath caught in his throat at the note at the very bottom.

  “Several animals have gone missing from our neighborhood. We don’t know what’s happened, but urge everyone to keep their animals inside at night. Make sure to block any pet entrances as well. If you have any information regarding the disappearances, please contact Joseph Murphy, the president of the neighborhood association.”

  Well, Mr. Murphy, maybe you should check with Alex Marshall. I bet he has
more information.

  Jason put the newsletter down and picked up his laptop. So far, his searches for allergic reactions to tattoo ink were unsatisfactory. Rashes, redness, and in rare cases, anaphylactic shock. One site reported it more common for allergies to appear years after getting the tattoo. Nothing about pain or pins and needles, but he wasn’t imagining the pain. He knew he wasn’t. His imagination wasn’t that good.

  It came and went, worse at night before bed. Despite what the websites said, an allergic reaction was the only explanation. He could either deal with it or have it removed (and hadn’t Sailor said tattoo removal was one of his specialties? A strange side-job for a tattoo artist), but neither option held much appeal. One website stated that the allergic reactions in some people disappeared after a time; Jason hoped he’d be one of them.

  Mitch came out of the house with two bottles of beer. “I thought you might want one.”

  He shut the laptop as she sat down in the lawn chair. Her hair, still damp from a shower, clung to her shoulders. A car drove slowly up the street and pulled into the Marshall’s driveway. As soon as it stopped, the passenger door flew open and a woman got out. She yelled something unintelligible into the car, slammed the door, and stomped around to the back of the house. A minute later, Mr. Marshall got out, slammed his door, and stalked toward the front door.

  “Well now,” Mitch said. “What a happy family.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think tonight is the right night to tell them about their son,” Jason said.

  “No, I don’t think so, either.”

  The daughter emerged from the car, tossing her coppery hair over her shoulder after she pushed the door shut. She leaned up against the car, pulled out a cell phone and made a call. The kid, Alex, got out of the car last. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and kicked the door with his foot.

  “God. It’s like a soap opera or something,” Mitch said. “Tales of the Suburban and Dysfunctional.”

  Serial killers always had family problems, didn’t they, and the family looked like it was full of issues—big ones.

  The girl closed her cell phone and stalked away from the house, turning her head to say something to Alex. He shook his head, and she gave him the finger.