Touched by Death

by T. L. Martin

  What the hell is happening? This can’t just be in my head. I know I’ve been a little off since Grams’s passing, but there’s no way I’d be able to dream up something so freaking real.

  It was here. He was here.

  Whoever he is.

  Chapter 5

  “Ah, Lou?” Claire’s voice comes from behind me, quiet and uncertain. “Are you all right?”

  I take a second to try and pull it together, hoping I look collected by the time I turn around and give her a non-answer. “Just getting some air.” She doesn’t respond, so I shrug and steal her words from earlier. “You know, the magic of the winter season and all that.”

  Claire’s frown tilts upward into a sweet smile, and her shoulders loosen a little. “It is pretty, isn’t it?” She lifts her chin and gazes around wistfully.

  “Sure is.” I walk around her and slip through the inn’s open door. I hear her close it behind us as I halt at the bottom of the staircase, unsure if I’m ready to go back up.

  What if he comes back?

  Nerves flutter through my stomach with the anticipation alone. It’s almost enough to make me race up the steps, but for what? To demand answers? The sound of his steady breathing by my ear comes to the forefront of my mind, the heat of his body pressing into me. I can’t move, still shaking from the shock and confusion of it.

  “So . . .” Claire’s already settled back behind the front desk. I hadn’t noticed the Christmas-red clip pulling back the top layer of her blonde hair until now, and she’s slipped a matching cardigan over her white top. “Got any plans for today?”

  My feet are still cemented to the ground at the bottom of the steps. I forget to think before I answer with, “Lock myself in the bathroom. Cry. Loathe the world and make up imaginary friends.”

  Silence fills the room. I finally look over my shoulder and see her wide eyes and unhinged jaw.

  Too much?

  “Kidding,” I say, silently reminding myself why it’s easier to lie—polite questions like hers don’t pair well with honesty.

  Proving my words to be true, her entire body relaxes, and she lets out an uncomfortable laugh. “Yeah, of course.” Her gaze shifts to the staircase I’m frozen in front of, and she tries again. “Well, um, Ashwick’s really big on town events and stuff, and there are plenty of winter festivities coming up over the next couple weeks if you’re, like, bored or looking for stuff to do while you’re here. It’s more fun than it sounds.” Her eyes brighten up as a light bulb goes off in her head. “You can go with me! I participate every year.”

  Shocker. Her proud grin and the eagerness in her eyes beg me to accept. I know I won’t go, but I don’t have the heart to straight up decline either. “I’ll think about it. Thanks.”

  I don’t know what else to say, so I unglue my feet from the floor and am about to take the first step when the email I sent Bobby crosses my mind. Think I’m going to settle in for a bit, get comfortable. Get a job.

  I don’t know how long I’ll end up staying, but I’m here now, and there’s something that feels right about it. Maybe the small-town vibe’s growing on me. Not to mention I’m stranded here without my truck. I’m sure I’ll figure out a replacement vehicle with the insurance company eventually, but I’m not exactly in a hurry to get back behind the wheel anytime soon.

  “Hey, Claire?”

  She beams. “Yes?”

  “You guys aren’t hiring by chance, are you?”

  “Oh Lord, do I wish we were! Could seriously use the company—I’m going out of my mind with how quiet this place is.” She snorts between a bubbly chuckle, then glances at me and stops herself, clearing her throat. “Sorry. So you’re thinking of staying?”

  I shrug a shoulder. “For a little while.”

  “That’s great! You’re going to love it here, I just know it.” Her enthusiasm is so genuine, the corners of my lips tip. “Except, it’s not the easiest place to find work. You know, more people than jobs and all that.” She chews on her lip.

  “It’s okay,” I say, already beginning to change my mind. “Don’t worry about it; I’ll think of something.”

  I resume the stairs and am halfway to the second floor when she calls my name. I pause to glance back.

  “There is one opening I know of…” She looks away and drums her fingers on the desktop.

  An unexpected spark of relief surges through me, and I cautiously come back down a few steps. A job. Something stable. Secure. And away from my room. Away from imaginary presences. “Yeah?”

  “It’s not exactly an easy job…”

  “Okay . . .”

  “And it might totally not even be your thing at all so—”

  “Claire.”

  “Right. It’s a caregiver position to an elderly gentleman.”

  I practically skip down the remaining steps to get back to the front desk. “That’s definitely my thing. I wasn’t getting paid for it, but for years I took care of my—” I gulp, not wanting to invite further questions by mentioning Grams aloud. “—of someone elderly.”

  “Great.” Claire smiles, but she doesn’t look entirely convinced. “It’s just . . . it’s not so much your experience they’d be interested in as your, um, ability to handle difficult people . . . ?”

  A frown pulls at my lips.

  “Mr. Blackwood, that’s the gentleman’s name,” she continues, “he doesn’t exactly like visitors, so he’s not the most welcoming. What he does like is his liquor, if you know what I mean. No one’s lasted more than a few weeks, and even that’s a record because, these days, no one seems to make the cut to begin with. Hence, the ad goes out every month like clockwork.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “An alcoholic, too? Sounds like the job was made for me.” Claire opens her mouth, but I continue, “Do you have the guy’s info? A number?”

  “Oh, you’re not going to need that. He never answers his phone, so the best thing to do is just drop in.”

  I may be new to town, but showing up on an anti-social alcoholic’s doorstep doesn’t seem like the brightest idea to me. If Claire notices my hesitation, she doesn’t let on. The second she resumes talking, not even a semi crashing through the front door could stop her.

  “The house is at 3341 Miller Way, but you don’t even need to remember that, trust me. You can’t miss it. Just turn left out the door, take a right onto Main Street, and keep on going even when the houses disappear. It’s the only residence on the hill up there. You really can’t miss the thing. Want me to give you a ride when I get off here?”

  Tempting. I hate walking, and Claire’s been nothing but nice to me. But she’s also bubbly and chatty, and being stuck in a car with her when I’m this moody would only drag her down and suffocate me. “It’s all right, thanks. I can walk.”

  She tries to hide it, but her face falls slightly. “Okay. Well, let me know if you change your mind.”

  “I appreciate it.” I smile and turn back toward the steps, ignoring the jitters forming in my stomach as I force my way to the top floor.

  I step into my room, locking up behind me. My back is glued to the door as I scan the space with care. Looks empty. Feels empty. Such a different feeling than when I ran out of here earlier. When he was here, in my bathroom, his fingers running gently down my skin . . .

  My body warms at the recollection, and I cross to the bathroom. It’s just as empty as the bedroom, a lightness in the air, and I’m surprised to hear my disappointed sigh. I shouldn’t be disappointed about this. Normal people would feel a weight’s been lifted, relieved to know their mental health might still be salvageable, right?

  Shoving the thoughts aside for now, I slink out of my clothes and get in the bath. I take my time shaving and exfoliating, the soap filling the bathroom with soft scents of vanilla. There’s still nothing to indicate his return when I towel-dry and get dressed, and I’m not in the mood to deal with an angry alcoholic just yet. I end up spending the remainder of the day curled up in blankets watching TV reruns while dev
ouring an entire box of pizza, until, eventually, I close my eyes and drift off.

  A warm breeze. Dark skies. Wet grass beneath my bottom. And nothing but lightning bugs to cast a flickering, dim glow around us.

  “What do you see?” I hear myself ask in that young, boyish voice. My skinny arm is outstretched before me, palm up, fist closed. I feel something small fluttering inside.

  “Can’t see nothin’ if you ain’t gonna show me,” Tommy quips with a crooked grin. He tries to duck when my other hand comes up, but I’m too quick, giving a playful tug on his ear.

  “You say anything, not nothin’. And it’s are not, not ain’t. Hear me?” I chide. “We’re not like him, you and I. Not in speech or anything else. Got it?”

  The younger boy nods slowly, then runs his fingers over a bruised cheek. “Got it,” he mumbles.

  “Now,” I repeat, angling my head toward my outstretched fist. “I didn’t ask what’s inside my hand. I asked what you see.”

  The little boy’s quiet for a moment, eying my fist like it’s a trick question. “How am I gonna see if you ain—aren’t—gonna show me?”

  “Look closer.”

  And he does. He leans forward, eying the faint glow seeping through the tiny gaps between my fingers. “I see . . . light?” He glances up at me, then narrows his large, childish eyes. “Hey, you got a firefly in there, don’t you!”

  “Shush,”I instruct, and I feel a smile tugging at the lips that aren’t mine. “So, you see a light. That’s good. And what else?”

  “Um. Well. It’s hard to see the light at all, with the way it’s blocked in like that. Wait a minute,” little Tommy says, flicking his gaze back at me, “you’re not killin’ it, are you? It’s gotta be runnin’ out of air.”

  My lips lift again. “No, this one’s a fighter. Watch.”

  I open my fist, a twinkling glow illuminating the open palm of my hand as the beetle hovers above it. After a second, it must realize freedom is finally in its grasp, because it darts off into the distance, becoming nothing more than a speck in the sky.

  “See, Tommy?” I say softly, the smile dropping as my eyes continue to gaze into the dark night. “He’s not so different from us, that lightning bug. You can trap him. Try to shut out his glow. Try to block his light from ever being seen again. But not even the biggest fist, the darkest night, is strong enough to shut it out completely.”

  My head shifts, my gaze locking onto Tommy’s.

  “You understand what I’m telling you, Tommy? You have a light inside you, and the only person who gets to decide whether that light shines or not is you.”

  The boy nods, eyes twinkling up at me, clinging to every word I say. “I understand,” he whispers.

  I wake with wetness on my cheeks. Sitting up, I swipe the tears with the back of my hand. I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s only a dream, just like before. And just like before, I felt everything—the fierce love for his brother, the desperation in his heart, the hope that his words were true.

  And it hurts. In the strangest way possible, it hurts. Why does it have to feel so real? Like I’m intruding on these boys’ most private moments?

  Except they aren’t real boys, I remind myself. None of it is real. Just fictitious creations of my twisted mind. It really should come as no surprise that a mind capable of conjuring intimate moments between me and an imaginary being would also be capable of this. Why only mess with me during the day when there’s so much fun to be had at night too, right?

  That thought prompts me to consider something I hadn’t thought of before. Both occurrences, the strange presence in my bathroom and the hauntingly realistic dreams, began around the same time.

  After my accident.

  Maybe I do need to see a specialist.

  I don’t let the revelation sit long before shoving it aside. No use letting it fester. I drag myself out of bed and get ready for the day before I can change my newly made up mind. I have too much time on my hands, that’s what it is. Anyone would go crazy just sitting around all day without any aspirations, right?

  Sounds like a reasonable explanation to me.

  I’m staying in this town, at least for now, and I’m getting that job.

  Chapter 6

  “Afternoon, Lou,” Claire sings as I stroll past her.

  Does anyone else work here?

  “Afternoon,” I call back. My voice is friendly enough for her sake, but I’m outside before I’m forced to be conversational.

  I turn right onto Main Street as instructed and tuck my red scarf beneath my sweater as I walk. The air is cold enough to produce white puffs with each breath, but I’m warming up little by little with every step. With my pace fast, it’s not long before any sign of humanity fades into the distance. No more cute little houses to greet me now, just a deserted road surrounded by what looks like miles of red dirt and tree-littered fields. The flat road curves into an upward slope, and I’m feeling a bit leery now.

  Massive iron gates ease into view at the top of the hill. Black birds watch me from the tree branches as I walk, and the sky is heavy above my head. The whole vibe feels like something out of a horror movie, and I’m about to be the poor dumb girl who ignores all the signs flashing psycho and finds herself hacked up for dinner. Okay, maybe that’s a little dramatic, but it’s at least at the level of Goosebumps, Things That Go Bump in the Night.

  Once I arrive at the towering gate, I scan it for a latch, a buzzer, or a camera—something to give me a clue on how to get past the thing. When I can’t find anything obvious, I move forward and tug on the rusted metal. The gate swings open with a loud creak, and I pass through. A winding concrete path leads me to the front door, and I’m almost disappointed to see how normal looking the house is after all the creepy build up. No bats. No cobwebs to get tangled in my hands when I ring the doorbell. Just a nice, traditional, white house tucked beneath the trees.

  A few moments pass with no response, so I ring again.

  Who is this old Mr. Blackwood, anyway? I realize a tad too late I probably should have gotten more info on this guy before up and waltzing myself over, unannounced.

  It isn’t the alcoholism that worries me so much. It’s the kind of guy the stuff turns him into. He likes his liquor could mean a whole crap load of things. If he’s just an unpleasant, bitter alcoholic, I can deal with it. Hell, Bobby’s middle name was Dick whenever he drank too much. I’d had enough experience with that side of him over the span of our relationship that I should be able to add it to my resume. But Bobby was a quiet, lazy sort of dick, if that’s a thing. His behavior was more out of ignorance than spite.

  The fact that Claire said Mr. Blackwood couldn’t keep a caretaker for more than a few weeks is what has me on edge. His previous employees would have been from this town, people who probably already knew the man’s history, demeanor, and ticks before going in. If they couldn’t even stick around, exactly what kind of person am I quite possibly about to be working for?

  A few loud thumps and crashes sound from behind the door before it drifts open, but whoever unlatched it has already disappeared. I hesitate before I enter, stepping past the threshold and closing the door behind me as grim piano strokes from the classic Funeral March play in the back of my mind.

  The man I presume is Mr. Blackwood stands in the middle of his living room—a good sized room with bland white walls, whose wooden coffee table and mocha-colored couches are strewn with crumpled pieces of paper and ink-filled notepads. I spot at least three empty glasses decorating the table, a mostly empty bottle of Three Ships Whisky serving as the centerpiece, and several plates of foul smelling food, which I suspect are not from today.

  Awesome. More whiskey. I don’t know why, but it makes me think of one of those dreams. The smell in the air as that boy was being whipped. A shudder runs through me before I force it away. At least no cigar smoke wafts through the air this time.

  His back is to me, greeting me with silence and a head of stringy grey hair brushing over
hunched shoulders, as he lowers a new glass onto the table. Uncorking the whiskey, he takes his sweet time emptying the bottle down to the last drop. A cane rests dormant against the couch, and the glint of silver beside it catches my eye. It’s coming from the man’s right leg. Metallic grey peeks out from a small gap between the hemline of his pants and his black leather shoes. When he straightens himself to take a deep swig from the glass, his pants lower, covering it completely.

  “So,” he begins, his voice gruff and dripping with disdain, “who sent you this time, huh? Patty? Dr. Keirston?” He still doesn’t turn to face me, just wanders over to the couch and picks up one of his notepads with his free hand. He lets out a bitter laugh and slurs, “I don’t really give a shit, actually. Go home. You’re wasting your time and mine.”

  I narrow my eyes, not yet decided on whether I should be falling for his I-hate-the-world act or not, and not sure if I care either way. Bushy, silvery facial hair hides most of his expression from view, making him difficult to read. One thing I can tell straight off the bat, though, is this man isn’t the conversational type, and honestly, it’s a relief.

  “The hospital didn’t send me,” I say simply. “I was told you need a caretaker, so I showed up for the job.”

  He grunts and ambles into the next room, which I assume from my partial view of the breakfast nook must be the kitchen. Cabinet doors open and slam as he searches for something. “Yeah, well they lied,” he calls through the short wall dividing us. “Been taking care of myself for years.”

  I glance around at the messy, alcohol-stenched room and shake my head, muttering, “Clearly.”

  “Go. Home,” he repeats, clipping the end of each word between drunken slurs.

  I can tell he means to sound threatening, and it might have worked if he’d actually face me. Right now, he sounds like an old man who’s about to pass out from one too many.