Samantha- The Haunting

by A A Bavar

  Patricia walked into her office and put her black, leather briefcase on the table. It was a Rebecca Minkoff, a brand way above what she could afford and something she would have never splurged so much on, but her dad had surprised her with it right after she landed the job at Clearwell. She smiled, unzipped the top and took out her laptop, placing it on the dock and turning on her thirty inch second monitor. It chimed to life, the day’s schedule popping up on the screen. Her first meeting was with the sales team at 9:30 a.m., fifteen minutes away.

  Patricia stared at the large screen momentarily and opened her top desk drawer. “Full day, Tricia,” she mumbled and took out her favorite mug. It wasn’t one of those mass produced ones people buy at department stores for $4.99 with silly phrases like Hello Beautiful, Sip it Like You’re Hot, or Mama Craves Some Tea, but an artisan, handmade mug she bought at a street fair a few summers ago. The artist had carefully depicted a beautiful autumn day, and shaped the mug with a wide base and narrow top and a curved handle that fit her hand perfectly.

  “I think today is a ginger peach day,” Patricia said to herself as she grabbed a teabag from a tin tea box inside the drawer and held it to her nose. She took a deep breath and smiled lazily before pushing the drawer shut and heading for the door. She turned right out the door and walked down the hall to the office kitchen.

  The kitchen was a small room with a square, wood table for four, a granite counter along the far wall equipped with a coffeemaker/hot water dispenser, microwave, and a small convection oven, a mini-fridge to the right of the door under the only window overlooking the parking garage below, and lots of cupboards. There were also a few handmade signs stuck above the counter reminding people to keep things clean and fill the hot water dispenser after use. Unfortunately, more often than not, the hot water dispenser was empty.

  Patricia walked over to the counter and smiled at the sound of gurgling water. It was still too early in the day for the hot water to be all gone. She put her mug under the spout, pressed the button, and watched as steaming water poured over her teabag. The teabag floated to the top, lingered for a few seconds, and then started to sink slowly. Suddenly, Paul’s half submerged and naked chest popped into her mind. What the hell? she thought.

  “I thought I might find you here.” The voice, deep and smooth, came from behind her.

  Patricia jumped and turned to find Paul standing in the doorway. Unlike what she had imagined seconds before, he was wearing a slim fit, grey Italian suit, a light pink shirt, black tie, and black leather, wingtip shoes. His black hair was slicked back with a few strands falling down over his forehead. He looked breathtaking.

  “Mr. Blast… I mean, Paul—”

  “Didn’t take you for the type to be easily startled,” Paul interrupted with an amused look.

  Patricia stayed silent for a second as their eyes met. She couldn’t help but admire his meticulous look. Unconsciously, she passed her hand over her skirt, smoothing it out. “Oh, I’m actually quite jumpy. Anything and everything can scare me,” she said with a nervous laugh.

  Paul walked into the kitchen and stood by the table. “I guess I should get to know you better,” he said, his blue eyes fixed on hers. “After all, if we’re going to work together, I should be aware of these details.”

  Patricia felt her heart skip a beat. She could smell the faint muskiness of his cologne and for some reason it was intoxicating. “Um, I haven’t quite decided yet,” she said, tucking her hair behind her right ear. “Can I have a few more days to think about it?”

  “Tell you what,” said Paul as he took out his cell phone from the inside pocket of his suit and swiped the screen with his thumb. “Just give me a second to check my schedule.” Paul looked down at his phone and there, plastered on the lit screen, were notes about Patricia’s daily routine: Thursday – meetings until noon, jogging and lunch until 1p.m., several marketing presentations in the afternoon, grocery shopping on the way home, and sporadically dinner with her friend Jocelyn Brooks.

  Paul looked up, arched his brow, and said, “My morning’s full, and I jog religiously on Tuesdays and Thursdays before lunch, so—”

  “You jog?” blurted Patricia, then added in a more controlled voice, “I also jog on Tuesdays and Thursdays. What a coincidence.”

  Paul shrugged slightly and put away his cell phone. “Coincidence or fate? I want to believe it’s a sign,” he said, and smiled. “Nevertheless, it does simplify things for today. How about we go jogging together and afterwards I’ll show you something that might help facilitate your decision?”

  “Okay, I guess,” said Patricia, and looked at her watch. “What time is good for you? My last meeting should end right before noon.”

  “Good. Why don’t I swing by your office a little after that, say 12:05? We can change at the fitness club and head out to the park.” Before Patricia had a chance to respond, Paul turned and left.

  Patricia stood silently by the counter wondering what had exactly happened. It was obvious that Paul wanted her to take the position, but what was the rest about. What harm is there in an innocent jog? she thought. It’s not like he’s a serial killer.

  Suddenly, there was a loud sputter from the hot water machine behind her. Patricia turned. The out of water light was on. She grabbed a small pitcher, filled it with water, and poured it into the reservoir. Then, with a shrug, she picked up her mug and headed back to her office.

  The rest of the morning went as planned, but as noon arrived, Patricia found herself feeling more and more anxious, and her nervousness was not related to Paul’s offer for her to lead the new project. It had to do with him, the person of Paul Blast. He was charming, yet mysterious, and that sense of the unknown made him very attractive to her, something like a James Bond-ish romance.

  “He can be my personal secret agent,” Patricia mumbled with a smile as she closed her planner and slid it to the side of her desk. “My name is Blast, Paul Blast.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Patricia, for the second time that day, jumped in her seat and looked up. “Oh, Anna, I didn’t realize you were still here. I was just talking to myself.”

  Anna Burk, a petite brunette around the same age as Patricia, stood just inside the office door holding a piece of paper with notes. “That’s how it starts, you know,” she said with a smile, and shook her head. “Anyway, I updated your messages log, but wanted to give you a heads-up before I went to lunch. Kathy Marino from Food for Health called three times this morning and wants you to call her back immediately. She was very anxious, so I thought maybe you’d want to call her before you left for lunch.”

  Patricia looked at her watch, it was 12:01. “Hm, okay, I’ll do that right now. Thanks,” she said, and as Anna turned to leave, added, “Anna, I might be a few minutes late getting back. Have a meeting with Paul Blast.”

  Anna stopped and spun around so fast she almost fell over. “Paul Blast? You mean the Paul Blast from…” she stopped and pointed her index finger to the ceiling and momentarily looked up.

  Patricia grinned. “Yes, one and the same. He wants to discuss a possible project. What would you say to moving up a few floors?”

  Anna’s jaw dropped, but before she could respond there was a knock on the door. “Am I too early?”

  Patricia looked past Anna to Paul standing by the door holding a gym bag. “No, just finishing up.” She looked back at Anna who had closed her mouth but now had her eyes open as wide as saucers. “Anna, please tell Mrs. Marino that I will call her at 2 for us to go over the new campaign.”

  Anna nodded. Patricia stood, grabbed her gym bag from behind her desk, and made for the door. As she passed Anna, who was still standing statue-like with her back to Paul, she turned and gave her a surreptitious wink.

  “Is your assistant okay? She seemed awfully quiet and a bit stiff,” said Paul as they made their way down the hall towards the elevators.

  “Don’t worry about Anna. I mentioned the possibility of us changing departments and she was
in shock, mostly because I hadn’t jumped at the opportunity.” Patricia raised her eyebrows in mock curiosity. “She is coming with me, right?”

  “Of course. Your assistant is your most important asset.” Paul pressed the elevator down button and turned to face Patricia. “Does this mean you’ve accepted my offer?”

  The elevator light dinged and the doors slid open. “It depends on what you have to show me after our jog,” said Patricia as she walked into the elevator.

  Paul nodded in amusement and followed.

  Paul’s pace was strong and confident. Initially, Patricia thought he was one of those short distance give-it-all types, but by the time they got halfway through the south border of Capitol Park it was apparent that he was a distance jogger. They were running side by side, Patricia comfortably matching Paul’s stride despite his longer legs. She looked at Paul on her left and noticed small beads of sweat covering the natural and very attractive hue of his skin. He had a nice, subtle tan, definitely not from a tanning machine.

  “How many miles do you do?” she asked, picking up the pace a bit.

  Paul matched her new pace and grinned. “Somehow I don’t think it matters. You haven’t even started to sweat,” he said with a nod of his head. “But since I am a gentleman… usually three miles before lunch.”

  “Three miles, huh? Then you should have no problem keeping up.” Patricia picked up the pace even more, watching Paul from the corner of her eye as he accelerated to keep up. She could tell he would make the three miles even at this rate, but she sensed that this was his limit. Patricia smiled to herself with satisfaction. It was good to know that she could outrun him if she wanted to.

  They jogged the rest of the three miles in silence. Talking was an impossibility at the pace they were keeping, and although Patricia was the fitter of the two, Paul kept pushing for more. For Patricia, it was almost as if he wanted to prove his superiority not only at Clearwell, but also physically. It simply wasn’t going to happen.

  They stopped in front of the fitness center, both dripping with sweat. Paul put his hands on his hips and leaned forward as he tried to catch his breath. “You’re in great shape,” he said in between gulps. “But didn’t your father tell you not to beat guys in sports? Especially not if they happen to be your boss?”

  Patricia shrugged and shook out her legs. “You’re not my boss, yet. And now you know firsthand how I play.”

  Suddenly, Paul jumped forward, his hands shooting out towards her with incredible speed.

  Patricia yelped in surprise and tried to step back, but he was too fast. He grabbed her tightly around the arms and pulled her towards him. Almost immediately, a man on a motorbike sped by and screeched to a halt twenty feet away.

  “Are you okay? Did he hit you?”

  Patricia looked up into Paul’s concerned eyes and nodded, her mind reeling.

  “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  Paul released her arms and turned to the man on the bike. “Hey, buddy, what the hell?” he shouted, walking quickly in his direction.

  The man twisted back and lifted his hands apologetically. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened. I lost control.”

  Paul walked up to him and said in a hushed tone, “That was perfect,” then added loudly, “You’re lucky no one was hurt. Now get out of here before I call the police.”

  The man revved up his bike and headed off without looking back.

  Paul walked back and put his arm around Patricia’s shoulder. She looked up at him, protected, secure, as they walked toward the fitness center entrance in silence. She could smell the sweat past his musky cologne and it aroused her, made her want him. He was her protector, the mysterious knight in shining armor, the kind of man Alex or Derek could never be.

  The elevator hummed to a stop on the twentieth floor and the doors slid open to reveal the beveled gold and silver letters of Clearwell Inc. mounted on the green Italian marble wall facing them. Paul motioned for Patricia to go ahead and followed her into the wide entrance hall. Patricia had never been to the twentieth floor and the sight was astonishing, high class, exceedingly extravagant, almost decadent. It was a bold and clear statement to anyone who stepped into the Clearwell head office; they were second to none. Practicality was not a concern, and why should it be to prospective clients? A combination of comfort and charm was the key to landing new accounts. Results came later. The floors below, professionally staffed and meticulously designed for work efficiency, took care of that.

  Paul gently touched Patricia’s elbow and guided her past the lush reception area to the hall leading to the offices to the left. Patricia was in awe. Never had she imagined working in such an environment. There were no cubicles, just large offices with glass walls, decorated with couches, sofas, hardwood desks – more like tables – and creature comforts that most people would never have in their homes. However, there was also a quiet sense of serious business. An undertow that nudged and pulled continuously, bringing in millions of dollars of revenue through personal negotiations, either by phone or over lunches and dinners.

  Paul stopped in front of one of the offices and turned to Patricia. He trained his eyes on hers and said in a decisive tone, “All you have to do is say yes.”

  Patricia gasped. Was he serious? This would be her office? It was beautiful, at least four times bigger than her current office, and had a spectacular view of Capitol Park. Before she could say anything, however, Paul motioned for her to follow. “There’s one more thing I want to show you.”

  They went back the way they had come to the other side of the building. Patricia noticed that the offices on this side were even bigger, each with their own private area in the hall for their assistants. Paul stopped again and turned. Patricia noticed Steve Browski’s name on the open glass door.

  “As I mentioned before, Steve is up for a promotion by the end of the year and this office… well, you never know.” Paul turned and walked into the office. “Come, take a look.”

  Patricia’s head was spinning. This didn’t make any sense. Moving up to the twentieth floor was already a crazy notion, but was Paul actually saying that she could be promoted to this office within a year? She slowly followed, taking in the expensive Persian rug, the dark Mahogany desk, the paintings, the black leather couch, and the glass center table.

  “You’ll notice that there is a full bar there,” Paul said, pointing at a nook in the corner of the room, “where, say if someone wanted to, they could put in a request for a tea machine or samovar.”

  Patricia smiled nervously. At that moment, there was the sound of someone clearing their throat behind her. Paul and Patricia turned to the door.

  “I’m sorry to intrude, Mr. Blast, but there is a situation that needs your attention,” said a middle-aged, perfectly manicured black woman.

  Paul nodded. “Margaret, this is Ms. Patricia Fowler. She may be coming to work with us on the Xavier Foods project soon.”

  Margaret smiled, but Patricia noticed that her smile did not extend to her eyes. It was practiced, a formal pleasantry. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” replied Patricia.

  “Your answer tomorrow?” said Paul as he walked past Patricia to the door.

  “Yes… yes, of course,” stammered Patricia.

  The corridor was long and confining, its walls narrow, almost suffocating. There were no windows, no other sources of light except for the blinking fluorescent tubes on the ceiling. Everything looked sterile and oppressive, the empty stretchers with leather restraints along the walls, daunting. Wendy nervously looked from side to side as she followed the same burly nurse down the path to Samantha’s room. For the first time since Samantha was committed over a year ago, she was uncomfortable to be there, shaken. She instinctively touched the Hope Diamond hanging around her neck.

  The nurse stopped in front of Samantha’s door but didn’t open it. Instead, she turned and looked at Wendy with a smug look on her face. “Dr. Yurka wants to see you afterw
ards.”

  Something was definitely wrong. “Um, okay. Is everything alright?” asked Wendy as she nervously adjusted her purse.

  “I wouldn’t know the details. You will have to talk to the doctor,” said the nurse curtly.

  “Okay, thank you.”

  The nurse unlocked the door and turned to leave, but then stopped. Slowly, she turned and faced Wendy again. She looked troubled, unsure. Obviously she had something to say and was trying to decide whether or not she should. Wendy stood silently, waiting. If the nurse wanted to confide in her, she didn’t want to say anything that would dissuade her.

  “I’m sorry for being short with you before,” started the nurse, “and I know there’s no excuse, but Ms. DesJardins has been very difficult since your last visit. She’s been aggressive and uncooperative, not eating or drinking, and only screaming… demanding that you come back… that we call you and make you come back.” The nurse looked at the ground like a chastised child, and then back at Wendy. “We increased her medication hoping it would help calm her down, but when she wakes up it starts all over again.” The nurse glanced at the door. “She should be waking up now.”

  Wendy nodded, her heart beating out of control.

  The nurse shook her head and walked away.

  Wendy put her hand on the door handle, her breath caught in her throat. Had Samantha somehow figured things out? It couldn’t be. It was impossible. Slowly, she pushed down on the handle, opened the door, and stepped inside. The room was pitch dark, the only light streaming in from the open door behind her. She couldn’t quite see the bed. Suddenly, the door slammed shut. She heard the lock snap.

  “Hello, Gwendolen,” said Samantha from behind her.

  Wendy spun around, but before she could react there was a crack and the room filled with red light. Something hit her hard in the chest and she was thrown back against the padded wall, unconscious.

  “And now the fun begins,” said Samantha.