Playing For Keeps

by Mur Lafferty

  But before he could even finish the thought he was in bed and Veronica's warmth and smell was the only thing he was aware of in the darkness. Would Rose have felt as warm? What would she have smelled like? He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose very, very slowly. He had to put this out of his head. He would be the same person tomorrow that he was tonight. These fantasies of walking out of his life, a life that had grown so comfortable and familiar that it bored him, and into a new, exciting unknown future, would never do him any good.

  Then again, these fantasies also did no harm. Richard knew in his heart he would never act on them. Whether that represented courage or cowardice on his part he could not say. He was too drowsy to think about it anymore. He scooted closer to Veronica, till his back touched hers, and fell into sleep.

  THE ALARM WENT off. Richard rolled from his bed groggily, reaching out to click off the alarm. But the alarm clock wasn't there. It was ringing behind him, on the other side of the bed. He looked over his shoulder. A man's hairy arm slipped from the covers on the far side of the bed and slapped the snooze button.

  Richard leapt up and spun around. Who the hell…? he thought. There were two strangers in his bed. Only it wasn't his bed. Veronica and he shared a queen-size bed, and he was now standing at the foot of a king-size one. He froze, afraid even to breath, as he studied the room in the pale morning light.

  The room had a spooky familiarity to it. The closet, the windows, the hall door… in fact, every single architectural element of this room was an exact match of his own bedroom. Except the furniture, the paint, the curtains—those were all different. He was in someone else's house.

  In the bed was an old man of considerable girth and a skinny old woman, their snores resuming in the aftermath of the alarm.

  OK, he thought. This is plain weird.

  Was this his house, or wasn't it? Should he be outraged at the intruders, or was he the intruder?

  His head hurt. Rubbing his temples, he realized what was happening. He was dreaming. He had done this before, dreaming that he was awake, growing increasingly confused and panicky before truly waking. There was even a name for this: hypnagogic sleep. His comedian's mind held onto little bits of trivia like that. But this level of awareness of his dream state gave him a chill. It was almost magical.

  He laughed. Loudly. The sleeping couple didn't stir.

  "Ain't this a hoot," he said. The couple continued to snore. He was very aware of the sound of his own voice. It seemed so real.

  "Am I dreaming?" he said. "I must be dreaming."

  He turned and looked in the dresser mirror. His hair was messed up from sleep, his eyes baggy and dark. He needed a shave.

  "You can wake up now," he said.

  He closed his eyes.

  When he opened them, he was still in the strange room.

  So maybe he couldn't wake up. His heart raced as he swallowed hard. No, no, no, he thought. He was already awake. Which meant he was in some stranger's house. How?

  The alarm went off again. The man smacked it into silence, and slowly rolled his great bulk into a sitting position. He rose, and lumbered off toward the bathroom, never even looking in Richard's direction.

  Richard silently let out a long, slow breath and tiptoed toward the hall door. He opened it gently, and stepped out of the bedroom. The hall was exactly like the one in his house. Richard scratched his head.

  He could rule out the dream thing. His senses were fully engaged. His legs were cold, standing in the hallway in only his underwear and socks. With every breath, he could tell that the residents of this house smoked, and weren't particularly fastidious in cleaning their cat's litter box. In the bathroom, the old man was making sounds on the toilet that Richard hoped were real, and not emanating from some dark and disgusting part of his subconscious.

  He left the hall and entered the living room, now prepared for the sense of déjà vu. The house, structurally, was a perfect match.

  Weird, but not impossible, he thought. Suburban architecture wasn't exactly known for individuality. But what were the odds that he had gone sleepwalking and wound up in a different house built on exactly the same plan?

  Then it hit him. This must be Bert's revenge. About a month ago, he had played a semi-harmless prank on the guy at work. He had loaded a gag font onto Bert's system, one where all the letters were reversed. Then he'd set that to be the default system font on Bert's machine. Bert had spent hours trying to discover what kind of killer virus had wrecked his computer before figuring it out. Bert had been to his house before. What if Bert had a friend with a house built to the same plan? Bert could get his friends in on it, could get Veronica to play along, could . . .

  Richard stared at the fireplace. When he and Veronica had moved into the house, they had discovered a small heart carved into the mantelpiece by some previous occupant. Richard took a step closer. The heart was there. This was his house.

  He had seen enough. He stormed back down the hallway and slammed opened the door.

  "Does someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?" he yelled.

  The old woman sat up with a start, staring at the door. She looked as confused as Richard felt.

  "Henry!" she called out.

  "What," Henry grunted from the bathroom.

  "Did you just hear something?" she asked.

  Richard stared at the woman's face. She was looking right through him. Was she blind? Being the victim of a bad joke didn't make him feel good about terrorizing old blind women. His anger fizzled.

  "Look," he said softly. "I'm sorry I startled you. I'm not a burglar, or—"

  Henry came out of the bathroom, naked. Richard once again hoped that this situation wasn't a dream. If he was going to be dreaming of a naked person this night, it should be Rose or Veronica, shouldn't it?

  "What?" said Henry.

  "I said did you hear something? It sounded like the bedroom door slammed."

  Henry stared at the door, with no acknowledgment of Richard's presence.

  "I didn't open it," said Henry.

  "Neither did I," said the woman.

  "Huh," said Henry.

  Richard sighed. "If this is a joke, it's a great one, except for one tiny detail: it's not funny!"

  Henry walked over to him, not in a menacing way, but with a speed and trajectory that showed very little respect for Richard's personal space. Richard held his ground. Henry stepped up to him.And then stepped right through him.

  Richard felt dizzy. He stumbled forward, and leaned against the dresser.

  Henry stood in the hallway, looking around.

  "Maybe it was Pooky," Henry said.

  "Pooky," the woman called out. "Where's my Pooky?"

  With a plaintive meow, a large gray cat ran into the room from the hall and leapt up onto the bed. Then the cat looked at Richard. Its eyes widened, its fur bristled, and it hissed loudly.

  "Pooky!" the woman exclaimed, reaching for her cat. Pooky eluded her grasp and fled the room.

  "What's gotten into that cat?" she asked.

  "Who knows, Martha?" said Henry, stepping back into the room. "Pointless to try to figure it out."

  "OK," Richard said. "This has gone far enough. You've taken this gag a long way, but the cat just blew the act. Who are you and who put you up to this?"

  Henry didn't answer. He went to the dresser and opened his underwear drawer.

  "Answer me, damn it!" Richard yelled, reaching out to grasp the old man's shoulders. But his hand passed right through Henry as if he were a ghost.

  Or as if Richard was.

  Richard began to laugh. He fell to his knees, tears in his eyes. He’d figured it out. This was his house. This was his house.

  And he was haunting it.

  "I WONDER HOW I died," he said to Martha.

  Martha kept ironing clothes.

  "I mean, it seems like my death should have been memorable, huh? It's, you know, one of life's big events."

  When Martha finished her ironing, s
he went into the living room to watch The Price is Right. She lit up a cigarette.

  "You shouldn't smoke," Richard said. "It'll kill you."

  He sat down next to her on the couch and looked at the television. "So will this crap. I mean, c'mon Martha. Don't make me spend my afterlife with Bob Barker. You hear me?"

  She didn't hear him.

  He sighed. "I figure I went in my sleep. That's why I don't remember it. But, I was so young! Pretty healthy, too. At least I thought so. Christ, I never even got colds."

  He crossed his legs on the coffee table and sank back into the couch, making himself comfortable. Bob Barker revealed the correct price of the stainless-steel refrigerator.

  "Twenty-two hundred dollars?" said Richard. "You know why refrigerators cost $2200? Women. Me, I was happy with my $50 dorm fridge. 'Why do we need a big refrigerator?' I asked. 'It just means we'll have more stuff going bad in it.' But Veronica had to have the top of the line. Our refrigerator had to make four different kinds of ice and have water on tap. I mean, ice is ice, and the water coming out of the refrigerator was exactly the same stuff coming out of the sink. But did any of that matter to her?"

  Richard looked over at Martha. She didn't answer.

  "Huh," said Richard. "Wonder what she spent on my funeral?"

  The funeral. He imagined looking down on himself in the casket. It was almost like a memory. Was it a memory? He wondered where his body was now, moldering away in some grave. Or would Veronica have had him cremated? Was he sitting in perfect feng shui harmony on a mantle-piece in a new living room? The bank had pretty good life insurance. It was probably a very large living room. Maybe with a big screen TV. Just his luck to be stuck here.

  A commercial started playing and Martha got up and went into the kitchen. Richard grabbed the remote control and changed channels the second she was out of the room, clicking through crap until he found CNN. From the kitchen, he heard the beeps of a microwave.

  "The Washington D.C. Dome was the target of another bomb scare today," the announcer said. "The bomb was discovered and diffused by a UN peacekeeping squad with the assistance of the mysterious adventurer known as Rail Blade." The screen shifted to stock footage of a woman lifting a tank over her head. This was the kind of stuff that made Richard assume that the line between journalism and fiction had been forever erased. "There were no injuries," the announcer continued. "The terrorist group Monday's Revelation claimed credit for the failed attack, and vowed further acts of violence during next week's completion ceremonies."

  This news gave Richard pause. He could recall the last day of his life, and he was pretty sure the D.C. Dome celebration was about a week away then. Just how quickly did Veronica sell the house once he'd died?

  The smell of popcorn filled the room as Martha came back from the kitchen. As she neared the couch, Richard's fingers turned to smoke around the remote, and it fell to the couch, right through his lap.

  Martha looked at the television, confused.

  "Pooky?" she asked, looking around.

  Richard felt more than a little confused himself. His on-again-off-again tangibility was frustrating. And, if he was dead, why was his stomach rumbling now that he smelled the popcorn? He got up and went into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator (definitely not a $2,200 model). To his relief, he found a pack of bologna and some cheese. To his greater relief, there was also a six-pack of beer. A loaf of bread sat on top of the fridge.

  He finished his second beer by the time he’d assembled a sandwich. He sat down at the kitchen table. The chair made a rasping sound as he scooted it closer to the table.

  A moment later, Martha cautiously peeked around the doorway. Richard waved at her, then returned to his sandwich. He was a little surprised that the sandwich didn't fall from his fingers. He wondered what Martha saw. Did it look as if the sandwich was just floating in mid air?

  Martha took a step forward. Richard reached for his beer, to wash down his food. His fingers passed right through the can.

  "Well, damn," he said, spitting crumbs.

  Martha crept toward the table. She reached out and touched the can of beer, then pulled her fingers away. The phone rang, and both of them jumped.

  Martha smoothed down her hair, before answering the phone.

  "Henry! Oh, thank God! No, Henry, listen to me! I think there's someone in the house!"

  She paced back and forth as she spoke, casting her eyes warily around the room.

  "Well, I was watching channel 6, then went into the kitchen, and when I went back, the remote had moved, and the TV was on channel 32. And then, when I came back into the kitchen, there was a can of beer on the table. And . . . and someone's moved the bread from the top of the refrigerator to the counter."

  Martha twisted the phone cord around her fingers until Richard thought she might pull it from the wall. He felt bad about scaring her, but it wasn't like he meant it. He was just trying to get on with his afterlife.

  "No!" said Martha. "I mean, sure, Pooky could have stepped on the remote. But how did she get a beer out of the refrigerator? No, it isn't one you left out last night. It's still cold!"

  Richard finished his sandwich. Since he was unable to touch the beer, he thought he'd try to get some water from the sink. But, for some reason, he couldn't scoot his chair back. It seemed nailed to the floor. He tried again, pushing harder, and suddenly tumbled to the floor, as the chair became intangible. He sat up quickly, rubbing his right elbow. The floor was still solid enough. And it was filthy. Martha and Henry weren't the best housekeepers. He got up, brushing away dirt.

  Martha was telling Henry she planned to call the police then go over to Edna's house. This bugged Richard. Edna Green was his neighbor. She was a sweet little old lady who deserved better neighbors than slobs like Martha and Henry.

  If Martha were going to call the cops, he'd give her something to call about. He went to the dishes in the sink. Martha was looking away, craning her neck to see if anyone was in the living room.

  Richard picked up a plate, and hurled it against the wall by her head. It shattered with a satisfying crash.

  He flinched as Martha shrieked at an octave he didn't know the human voice could reach before she fled the house through the kitchen door.

  "Martha!" Henry shouted from the phone.

  Richard picked up the phone.

  "Hi," he said.

  "Martha! What's happening?" said Henry.

  "Can you hear me?" asked Richard.

  "Martha! Say something!"

  "Sorry," said Richard, hanging up the phone. "Nobody's home."