Four Ghosts

by James Ward Fiction

  Stone felt the floor begin to vibrate. He was suddenly weightless, floating just below the rafters. There was an electric hum in the air and the odor of burnt sugar. A bright flash of blue blinded him as Arder wrapped her arms around his chest. He felt sad. He felt defeated. He felt wanted.

  Photo by Mike Jansen

  Christine Sutton

  The Outcome

  Watching the news obsessively had become a sort of pastime for Mark Sampson. He found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the television that sat atop a stand only feet away from his chair. Story after story told the details of the trial of Harold Looney.

  Neighbors of the convicted felon were interviewed. They all talked about the thin, sandy-haired man that lived on their street and waved at them most mornings. One woman said she was chilled to the bone at the thought that such a monster had been in her house, fixing her sink. She was crying and saying she could not believe that she had been only feet away from such unimaginable evil, yet she had somehow survived the ordeal.

  One man even went as far as to say Harold's wife and teenaged son should have known that something was amiss. He had asked the pretty blonde reporter how that woman could have possibly slept next to a murderer for so many years and not have known something was horribly wrong.

  Mark knew better, though. He knew the upcoming execution of Harold Looney was a travesty, and a farce. He knew Harold Looney had probably never done anything truly evil in his entire life. The fact remained that Harold Looney was set to die by lethal injection in less than twenty-four hours, and there was nothing that anyone could do about it.

  Mark sat in his chair with a plaid blanket wrapped around him to combat the cold that had invaded his apartment. He had called the superintendent no less than ten times to get the heater fixed, but every time he was told nothing was wrong with the thermostat. The chill in the air was the kind of cold that invaded your deepest tissues and wormed its way into your bones. It was a chill that nothing could subdue. He shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around him as he watched a Dateline exposé on the life and times of Looney, up to and including his pending execution. The hot tea he had brewed for himself had gone cold too quickly.

  Mark reluctantly rose from his seat and looked around the apartment. It was a beautiful but sparsely furnished two-bedroom apartment in an upscale neighborhood. Less than five years before, Mark had been scrounging for food in the garbage cans behind this very building. Now, he was one of the residents that had voted to install security cameras behind the building to deter undesirables from sullying the image of the great Sullivan at 5th Avenue apartments. This was, after all, a landmark building.

  This luxury apartment had become little more than a prison for the man. Every wall was oppressive to him and every door led to more pain. He took no joy in the art that adorned the walls, or the plush carpeting under his feet. The living room he stood in had once been decorated in a lush Tuscan style, but now it was disheveled and sloppy. He had moved a television onto a small stand and pulled his recliner up to it so as not to miss a detail of the news stories. This was the only area, other than the bathroom and a small part of the kitchen counter used to make tea, which was ever used anymore.

  As he moved towards that kitchen counter, one of the chairs tucked under the dining room table suddenly fell over into his path. He tried to sidestep it, but it was no use. His feet tangled themselves in the dark wood legs and he went sprawling face first, the half-empty teacup flying from his grip and shattering against the wall. The sharp pain that shot through his shin told of a bruise that would show itself very soon. He felt the air vacate his lungs as he hit the carpet with a thud. He tried to catch his breath by making long, labored wheezing sounds that would soon turn into regular breaths. He looked up at the spot on the wall that was now covered with a thin layer of tea. Even through the stars dotting his vision, he saw the word written in the cold tea drips.

  Liar.

  Mark scrambled to his feet, still trying to suck in enough oxygen to breathe normally. He looked at the liquid on the wall again, but this time the word was not there. There was nothing but brown streaks and pools of tea and broken glass on the floor.

  "What the hell is going on?" Mark asked the empty room.

  He did not expect to hear an answer, so when the hissing voice filled the room, Mark screamed out in fright.

  "Liar."

  He stepped back, forgetting about the overturned chair behind him. He tumbled backward, pin wheeling his arms to try to regain his balance. It was once again no use. This time he landed flat on his back, banging his head against the floor. The stars once again flooded his vision and he laid there for a minute, waiting for his eyes to clear. He was able to gather his senses and he stood up, against the better judgment of his aching back. The first thing he did was to pick the chair up and put it back in its place under the table.

  As he stepped away from the newly righted chair, he heard the familiar sound of wooden chair legs gliding across his tiled floor. He turned around again to see that the chair had moved itself out from under the table by at least four inches. Mark defiantly reached out and scooted the chair back into its rightful place, betraying the fear he was beginning to feel. This time, the unseen force did not wait for Mark to turn away. The chair pulled itself out, this time at least a foot.

  Mark wanted no part in this game. Whatever it was that was doing this would not have his cooperation. He turned away once again, and this time there was no scooting sound. This time, the only sound other than the murmur of the Court TV anchor in the other room was the progressively loudening sound of the chair rattling. It started as a gentle tick, and progressed to an almost deafening clatter. The chair was jumping like a popcorn kernel in a hot air popper.

  Mark stood there, watching in amazement, not sure what to do. The rattle was making its way from the tile floor up into his legs, up into his spine and straight into his brain.

  He tried to convince himself that it was all in his imagination, but his brain was having none of it.

  His blood froze when the chair suddenly whizzed past him and hit the wall with a loud bang. He registered the sound of cracking wood within the cacophony and watched as the back legs of the chair buckled and splintered with the force of some unseen weight. It folded in on itself as though it was nothing but an empty tin can caught in the grasp of a thirsty teenager trying to impress his friends with his super strength.

  He wasted no time as he snatched up the phone from its cradle and ran to the bedroom in the back of the apartment. He could feel a presence behind him as surely as he could feel his feet connecting with the carpet, but when he dared to look back there was nothing but the empty hallway.

  Reaching his room after what seemed like an eternity of sprinting, Mark slammed the door behind him and twisted the tiny latch to engage the flimsy lock. He cursed himself for never bothering to install a deadbolt, or a panic room, or booby traps, or anything that would keep his attacker out of his safe haven.

  He plopped down onto the bed with a thud, breathing so heavily that he thought his heart might actually pound its way out of his chest. The pain in his bruised body was announcing its presence like an unwanted protester. His shin throbbed, shooting pain into his knee. He did his best to ignore it.

  He clutched the handset in his hands, trying to calm himself. After his breathing slowed slightly, he brought the phone up and pushed the 'talk' button. The keypad illuminated with what, at the moment, was an eerie green light. He took an involuntary moment to ponder why situations like this would make something as mundane as a backlit keypad seem menacing.

  "What the hell is your problem? Are you a fucking philosopher, now?"

  Cursing himself for letting his brain wander, he moved his thumb over the pad to begin dialing. He stopped when he realized that he had no one to call.

  He could not call the superintendent that "secretly" called him a 'batshit crazy crackpot' behind his back. If he were to call the police, they would o
nly join the super in his opinion.

  "Officer, I need a SWAT team to my apartment because something moved my chair and made me feel scared," he said aloud, mocking his own stupidity. "They'll lock me up, for sure."

  He simply clutched the phone to his chest and chanted, "What the hell am I gonna do?"

  As if in response to his query, the small television that sat atop his dresser hummed to life. The screen lit with a picture of Lester Holt for Dateline, NBC, telling the public that the monster would be put to rest at midnight that night, and what a relief it would be for the families of his victims that justice would finally be served. The commentary began playing on a loop, sharpening down until it was just one word that sent a shiver down Mark's spine.

  Justice.

  Justice.

  Justice.

  Justice.

  "STOP!" Mark shouted, covering his ears.

  In response, the little nineteen-inch television exploded in a shower of thick glass, plastic and sparks. Mark shot up off the bed and huddled down on the side of the mattress to avoid the shrapnel, dropping the phone in the process. He quickly checked himself, grateful that he had not been cut and grateful for the silence.

  The green light from the phone glowed as that silence was broken by a loud ring. He scrambled over to pick up the handset, wondering who in the hell was calling him. No one ever called him. He put the phone to his ear and gingerly spoke.

  "Hello?"

  "Liar," a frightening, raspy voice said from the other end, soft at first, but as the specter repeated the single word, its voice rose to a deafening shriek.

  "FUCK YOU!" Mark screamed, hitting the button to disconnect the call.

  Nothing happened. Mark frantically pushed the button, but still nothing.

  The voice continued to shriek the single word, morphing it into a cackle.

  The cackling died down after what seemed an eternity, and was replaced by the soft pleading voice of a man.

  "Please God. Please let this go away. Please let them find the man that did this and let me go back to my family. I don't want to die," the voice coughed and seemed to choke back emotion, but it continued.

  "If I have to die, please watch over my wife and son. Please let them be all right. I want them to move on and find someone to take care of them. I want them to forget me."

  Mark felt his own grief making its way to the surface, threatening to burst forth. The voice continued, but now it did not sound grief-stricken. The voice suddenly sounded hateful and vengeful, and angry. As it spoke the next words, it spiraled into an almost cartoonish vitriol.

  "And God, my last wish on this earth, before they kill me is that that bastard that testified against me burns in Hell. I want him to rot and writhe in pain for the rest of his pathetic life, and then when he dies painfully, I want him to go straight to Hell and burn for eternity with worms crawling from his eyes, and snakes writhing in his belly. Because liars go to Hell. All liars go to Hell and burn with worms in their eyes."

  The cackling laughter began again. Mark listened helplessly.

  "What do you want me to do? There is nothing that I can do!"

  The locked door swung open slowly, creaking on its hinges. He half expected the Devil himself to be standing there, waiting to take him to a dark pit to burn for eternity.

  When he saw that there was no Dark Prince waiting for him on the other side, he gathered himself and bolted up to the closet. He grabbed a small duffle bag that he had filled with essentials; socks, underwear, some clothes and other toiletries. Inside the bag was a bundle of bills totaling twenty-six thousand dollars. It was all that was left of the money that he had been paid for his complicity.

  He snatched up the bag and headed out the bedroom door, not sure of where he was going to go. He only knew that he could not stay in the apartment for another minute.

  As he raced down the hallway once again, he heard a deafening clatter coming from the kitchen. When he entered the living room, he could see the source of the noise. All of the plates and cups were flying from his cabinets and hitting the walls with rocket force. Each small porcelain disc shattered, and each clear cup exploded as they hit the tiled wall. Sprays of powdered china erupted and coated the floor with a layer of what looked like the finest snow, ready to melt at the first sign of sunlight.

  The powdered layer was only interrupted by the occasional angry looking shard of sharp glass protruding from the floor like little sentinels, denying passage to any interlopers.

  Mark ignored their silent warnings and ran toward the front door, intent on fleeing the madhouse. He grasped the knob and twisted, ready to be free from his prison for the first time in months.

  The knob had other ideas. It refused to turn in his grip. He dropped his bag and gripped the knob in both hands, tugging at it with all of his force. Still, nothing.

  "Open up, you bitch," he whined, feeling close to tears.

  He beat his fist against the wood, somehow hoping that it might make a difference. As he expected, it did not.

  When he felt the hand grip his shoulder, he was unable to scream. He wanted to scream. He wanted to scream and wail in abject terror, claw his eyes out and plummet into madness, but instead he stood there like a mannequin, frozen in fear.

  The icy fingers dug into the flesh of his shoulder like tiny spears. Mark winced from the pain that was no doubt dulled by the shock, but still intense. He felt the hand tugging him backward, trying to turn him around. His mind conjured unbelievably horrible images of a rotting, vile monster with horns and black holes for eyes, waiting to devour him and carry his soul straight to Hell. When he realized that he was unable to resist the pull of the nightmare behind him, he yielded to the pressure and turned around.

  Nothing. Nothing but empty space. He began to weep with just as much frustration as relief.

  "What do you want from me?" Mark cried out.

  As if in answer, the phone rang, causing Mark to scream out as if he had been shot. He wrestled with the idea of answering it, but his body had given in and he felt as though his limbs were made of lead. After the third ring, the machine mercifully clicked to life. After the mechanical greeting announced that Mark was unavailable, a familiar voice came through the speakers.

  "Mark, are you there?"

  His paralysis broke and he scrambled to the phone on the wall. There was no way in hell that he was going to go back to the room to retrieve the cordless handset. He fumbled to get the receiver to his ear.

  "Hello? Hello?"

  "Mark, hey it's Aaron. I was just checking up on you," the man on the other end of the line said cheerfully.

  "I know who this is. Something is happening to me. I need help. I can't do this," Mark blubbered.

  "Whoa, slow down. What do you mean you can't do this? I think you need to calm down." Aaron tried to sound soothing.

  "Don't you tell me to calm down, you squirrely little fuck! You have no idea what the Hell is happening here!"

  Mark expected the Congressman's assistant to get angry with him, but the only thing he heard on the line was a soft giggle, followed by a voice that almost made his bladder let go.

  "I know what's happening to you. You are getting a little taste of Hell. That's what Hell is like, Mark. You feel it in all of your senses . . . It tastes like rotten meat crawling with maggots . . . It smells like decaying flesh . . . It sounds like the screams of a million tortured souls . . . It looks like the most horrific monster from your worst nightmares . . . but most of all, Mark . . . Hell is pain. Hell is a pain that you could never comprehend, but it won't let you die and it won't allow you to go mad. Hell is forever, Mark. Hell is forever."

  Mark was frozen in place. His bladder did let go and he felt the warm stream of urine flowing down his legs and puddling in his shoes. The sensation woke him from his daze and he let the phone fall from his hand. It hit the floor and the plastic casing gave way. The handset shattered on the floor, but it did not stop the glee-filled giggling from echoing through the apartme
nt.

  He put his hands to his ears, trying to block out the hateful noise. When that didn't work, he felt a rage building in his gut. He lifted his urine soaked foot and stamped down on the broken receiver, busting into even smaller pieces and finally silencing the giggle.

  Aaron was right. He needed to calm down. He needed to steady his nerves. He stepped over the shards of glass and fine white power to reach the kitchen sink. Opening the cabinet below, he reached in and took out the bottle of gin he had stored there.

  In the five years he had lived in The Sullivan, he had never taken a drink, or even opened the bottle. He kept it as a symbol of what his life had been before. It was a liquid reminder of the shitty existence that he had led up to that point.

  Without hesitation, he twisted the cap off the bottle and inhaled the woody aroma of his favorite poison. His lips met the neck, and he felt the familiar burn traveling over his tongue and down his throat, nestling into his stomach like a familiar friend.

  He sighed heavily and made his way back to his recliner. After changing his pants with the spare pair in his duffle, he flopped down into the chair and took another deep swig. As the warmth in his chest spread into his head and down to his feet, he relaxed into his seat.

  This had to be an awful dream. There was no other explanation.

  The loud rapping on the door made Mark jump and almost drop his bottle of gin. He saved the bottle and clutched it tight to his chest. The knocking came again and he tried to decide if it was real or just another hallucination. The third knock and the small voice that accompanied it, told him that it was no dream. It was Marta, the woman that lived across the hall with her grandmother, the woman that had raised her after her own mother had left.

  "Mr. Sampson? Are you okay? I heard some yelling."