The Blumhouse Book of Nightmares

by The Blumhouse Book of Nightmares- The Haunted City (retail) (epub)

  “My grandfather’s sick,” she explained. “I try to come home whenever I can. I feel like every visit could be the last.”

  “I’m sorry,” I replied, not really knowing how to parlay that information into something more flirtatious.

  “It’s okay, he’s very old, and he’s not really there mentally. It’s more for my mom.” Her mother was taking care of her grandfather, who was living in their house. Or, rather, she was living in the grandfather’s house, the house she had grown up in. Just then a few more guys arrived—cuicos, Nico would call them. These were the Chilean version of preppies, the handsome, athletic assholes from the high school movies I grew up on.

  “My friends are here,” Sophie said, getting up, waving to them. The guys didn’t enter the pub. They looked over at me, nodding, lighting cigarettes, texting. In a flash I could see that the night wasn’t going to end next to Sophie.

  “We’re going to a party at a friend’s house if you want to join us,” she invited.

  “That’s okay. I don’t…really want to crash your friend’s party. But thank you.” I think she appreciated that I didn’t make up a story that I had something else to do, given that she’d found me sitting alone in a pub in a city I had never heard of twenty-four hours ago.

  “Okay. Well, when are you leaving?” she asked.

  “I have a train tomorrow, but I can go anytime.”

  “Come for dinner at my mother’s house. She makes an amazing Sunday dinner. It’s worth the trip for the food.” Her sister nodded in agreement.

  “That sounds great,” I said. She said she’d WhatsApp me the address, and I told her I’d see her there. Then she left with her friends. She looked back once more and smiled with a little wave. The guys also looked back, and the big one gave me a nod, the international gesture for “Nice try.”

  —

  I spent the next morning jogging and then walking around town. I wanted to see more of the city but in a strange way didn’t want to run into Sophie, as if that would give her some excuse to wiggle out of our plans. But she didn’t. She just texted me around two: “Still coming?”

  “Of course. I want my Sunday dinner!” I said, adding an angry-face emoji. She responded with a winking smile.

  —

  Sophie’s house was small and unassuming and looked as if it had been built in the 1940s. She told me to be there at 7:30, so I arrived at 7:40 out of fear that she wouldn’t be ready and I’d be stuck in a living room with her mother, pretending that I knew her daughter better than I actually did. In fact, when I arrived, they were already seated and eating, and I felt embarrassed. Sophie had told me not to bring anything, but of course I brought a bottle of wine, chalking it up to the nice Jewish boy manners my mother had hammered into me. Sophie’s whole family was blond. Her mother, Katia; her uncle Karl; and some cousins, whose names I can’t remember. “We started early because of the kids,” Sophie explained, kissing me hello, making it clear that I hadn’t done anything wrong by showing up a little late. I said hi to Angela, who seemed to be in a much friendlier mood. The mother, an even larger version of Angela, gestured for me to sit down and then heaped salad, rice, and fish on the same plate and put it in front of me. There was no mention, nor sign, of a father, so I didn’t ask. Sophie made sure I sat next to her, and when I finally settled she gave my leg a little squeeze to let me know she was glad I’d made it. I felt the same.

  The family didn’t speak much English—the kids knew a bit more than the parents, and Sophie acted as a translator for the table. I tried my best to explain why I was in Chile. At first I started continuing the Nico lie about opening a club with him in Chile, but I soon dropped the act and said that I had sold a business for a lot of money and honestly had no idea what I wanted to do next. Sophie was still in school; she modeled on occasion to pay her bills but she really wanted to go into design. I saw some of her childhood drawings around the house and realized that her entire childhood had taken place when I was already an adult. They asked how old I was, and I joked my way out of it by saying I was seventy-five but that I looked very good for my age.

  I noticed one empty seat at the table. There wasn’t even a place setting. Sophie caught this.

  “Grandpa’s upstairs. He stays in bed mostly. We’ll go say hi after we eat.”

  “Is that weird? You bringing some random American?” I asked. I don’t know why I said “random.” I felt stupid as soon as the world left my mouth.

  “No, he’s used to me bringing home strange men week after week,” she teased, keeping a straight face.

  “Oh, perfect,” I added. And then we ate dessert.

  I had no idea I was making a social faux pas when I stood up to clear my dishes. The entire table jumped, commanding me to sit down. I assumed it was because I was a guest, but then I learned that it’s because I was a man, and that men don’t do dishes in Chile. The women do. My mother raised me that you always help—always—but they were telling me to sit my ass down and let them take care of it. I was more than happy to oblige. I’d had about three glasses of wine at that point and was starting to feel it a bit. “Okay, okay, I had to offer. My mom raised me that way.” Sophie took my empty plates with a smile, winking at me. “Just sit. Enjoy your wine.” And so I did.

  After dinner the mother went upstairs and then called down to Sophie. “Come,” she said, leading me up the stairs. I passed by the pictures in the stairwell, watching Sophie and her family grow before my eyes as I walked by. At the top of the stairs, at the end of the hallway, I could see an old man sitting up in bed, the door wide open so he could see everything going on. We walked into his room and I noticed a distinct smell of old man. I wondered if that’s what I was going to smell like if I ever made it to that age. The mother was standing over some kind of oxygen regulator, a very high-tech version of a scuba tank, next to an IV drip. She was trying to get the old man to eat the last little bit of food, but he wasn’t having any of it, weakly waving her away.

  I stood behind Sophie, following her cues. She got very quiet.

  “Hallo Opa,” she said in German.

  “Mein Kind,” he said weakly.

  She looked at me. “He always calls me that. It means ‘my child.’ ” His age shocked me. This wasn’t an eighty-year-old grandpa. He looked like he was over a hundred. I couldn’t tell if this was some illness, or if he was just really fucking old, but this man looked more like a great-great-great-grandfather than a grandpa. Sophie introduced me to him in German.

  “Hello,” I said. I looked at Sophie, asking if I should shake his hand, and she waved that it was okay, I didn’t need to.

  “This is my grandfather, Hans.”

  “Nice to meet you, Hans. Guten Abend.” It was about all I could muster. He nodded.

  “Where’s your grandfather from?” I asked, knowing the answer.

  “Austria. His family moved here when he was young.” That was all she would say. I nodded, looking around the room. There were some books, old photos, a painting of a European countryside with people bathing in natural springs. Something from the motherland, I assumed.

  Sophie’s mother then asked her in Spanish to help her with something in the kitchen. I started to follow them out, but Sophie looked back and said, “It’s okay, I’ll be right back. Keep him company. Don’t worry, he won’t bite or anything.”

  And with that, she left me alone with the old man in the bed.

  I stood there looking at Hans, who looked back with steel-blue eyes. It seemed far more awkward for me than for him. He was too old, too sick, and too tired to care what was happening. He nodded and smiled.

  I looked around the room and noticed an antique wooden dresser with a picture on it of a young man in a military uniform. It was an old, faded photograph of a soldier. I looked closer. The soldier’s uniform looked like something from the war. I couldn’t tell what it was.

  I pointed to the photo, and I don’t know why, but I just asked him, “Austria?”

  He looked a
t me, silent, as if he pretended not to hear me, but I know he saw me ask him.

  I pointed to him. “Austria?” I repeated.

  He nodded slightly, just a tiny head gesture. Maybe this was all he could communicate.

  “Not German?” I asked, pretending I misunderstood. The old man didn’t respond, so I pointed again.

  “German?”

  The man then mouthed a little, as if he was trying to say something, but all I could faintly hear was a sound that resembled air slowly escaping a bicycle tire. It took too much effort to speak, and he just closed his eyes. I was almost standing over him, watching him breathe. I looked at his night table. There were lots of medications, a carafe of water, a plate with some crumbs. A notepad. A pen. A Sharpie.

  I don’t know what possessed me, but I picked up the marker. I turned my back to the old man, so I was facing the doorway. I heard Sophie and her mother in the kitchen, the dishes still clanging, furniture moving. I rolled up my sleeve.

  I stood directly over the old man. His eyes were still closed. When he opened them, I held out my arm in front of him, showing the number I had just written on my forearm:

  A-15598

  He looked up at me, then at the number again. His breathing started to increase, just slightly. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or scared, and I pointed to the number again. Then I spoke the second word of German I had learned that morning on the train ride, specifically anticipating this moment:

  “Geist.”

  It meant “ghost.” I pointed to myself, then to my tattoo, and repeated the word, this time more strongly, inches from his face.

  “Geist.”

  He began to shake, reaching his hand to the side for a call button. I moved it just enough so he couldn’t reach it. I took a tissue from his night table and covered the underside of my hand with it. I then reached over to the knob on his oxygen tank and opened the valve with a turn. The sound of hissing oxygen filled the room, or at least I think it was oxygen—whatever it was flowing to the tubes running into his nose. He coughed a little, which turned into a spasm. I shoved my tattoo right in his face. He coughed louder, his eyes tearing. He looked up at me, begging with his eyes, his hand trying to touch mine. I then turned the nozzle fully open—the room now filled with the sound of hissing gas. I leaned over him, putting my eyes inches from his shaking head.

  “Brausebad,” I breathed. He knew the meaning of that word. Shower.

  His eyes locked with mine. They shook, welling with tears, until they rolled back into his head. His hand trembled and, after a moment, stopped. Completely. I leaned back. He wasn’t moving anymore. I kicked the bed slightly to be sure. Nothing. I turned the knob back to where it had been, rolled down my sleeve, crumpled the tissue into my pocket, and left the room.

  —

  Sophie was helping with her mother in the kitchen when I came in. I told her that I had just gotten a text from Nico, that he had me on the list for some cool VIP party for the music festival, and that I had to catch the next train back to Santiago. I thanked her for dinner and told her I’d love to see her again that week. I kissed her on the cheek and turned to her mother, who gave me a very sweet hug and a kiss. She hugged me with just her arms, as her hands were wet, and looked at Sophie, smiling in approval. Sophie saw me to the door.

  “She likes you.”

  “I like her. Thank you again for inviting me. It was really nice.” I kissed her on the cheek again and walked outside.

  I inhaled a long, deep breath of the warm summer night air. It felt spectacular. I could hear the sound of crickets, the same ones I used to hear at overnight camp in Maine. I started walking, slowly at first, then picked up the pace into a light jog. Soon I was running, arms wide open, sucking in every delicious drop of the wind. And as the smile grew across my open mouth, I erupted in the most joyous laugh I’d felt since I was a teenager. It was summertime. I had no responsibilities. I could do whatever I wanted. I felt alive.

  Batman is getting ready to puke.

  He’s been in a foul mood all morning. Picking fights with the other performers, edging his way into group shots, chasing down any tourist foolish enough to snap a picture without paying. That was before the wind died, before midday hit and the temperature spiked into the low nineties. Now Batman is slumped against the brick wall, with jagged slashes of black mascara running down his fat cheeks. The rest of us give him a wide berth. We’ve all had heatstroke. We all know what’s coming next.

  I sit cross-legged by the escalator, drumming my hands against the pavement. No signs or tip jars, not today, but that hasn’t stopped a few people from pausing long enough to drop a few crumpled dollars on the ground. I smile politely and leave the bills where they fall. Sooner or later, some kid will come along and scoop them up. That’s fine. I’m not here for the money.

  I’ve staked out a shaded alcove at the far end of the Hollywood and Highland shopping complex. Here tourists crowd the forecourt of the Chinese Theatre, taking pictures of the sidewalk tiles or squatting to press their palms against the celebrity handprints in the concrete. Their children trail behind, bored out of their minds. They’ve never heard of James Mason or Clark Gable.

  A few yards away, Oscar the Grouch is posing with four heavyset teenagers. He has his arms around their shoulders, and the girls are all shrieking with laughter. Just beyond that, Captain Jack Sparrow has stepped to the curb to bum a smoke off some cartoon badger that I don’t recognize. The badger’s head rests at the curb by his feet, its big plastic googly eyes staring right at me.

  I’m wearing a costume too, but of a different kind: saggy-assed jeans, a stained tee, and a denim jacket that’s split neatly down the back. There’s a thin band of cloth to keep the sun out of my eyes and a rubber band holding my beard in check. An old pair of Jordans, swiped from the backseat of some gym rat’s Grand Cherokee. Green socks, a few sizes too large, which keep slipping down and bunching around my ankles. Nothing that would make you look twice. Just another cautionary tale.

  Okay, that’s not entirely true. There is one misplaced detail, one element that doesn’t quite belong. A faded red-and-white checkerboard scarf is bound securely around my left wrist. The fabric is delicate, gossamer, nearly transparent. It’s my only keepsake from my previous life. I bury my face in the scarf and inhale deeply. On good days I like to imagine that I can still pick out lingering traces of her shampoo: one of those cheap brands in a green plastic bottle, some coconut-infused attempt at tropical flavor. Today I can’t smell anything at all.

  Another dollar lands at my feet. “God bless,” I murmur automatically. Wondering if it’s safe to risk another look. Knowing that I don’t have a choice, not really. I need to know if it’s still there.

  I raise my head, slowly, casually, and scan the crowded street.

  I feel a bright flare of panic when I don’t immediately see the thing…but that’s the point, isn’t it? The harder you look, the better they hide. I force myself to relax, to take a deep, calming breath. Letting my eyes gradually lose focus, like a child trying to puzzle out a Magic Eye illusion. The world blurs, all the sharp edges dropping away.

  And I see the creature.

  —

  You figure out which neighborhoods are safe. They rarely come over the hill, and never farther than Toluca Lake or North Hollywood. They tend to avoid the beach cities, and they hate the desert.

  Stay away from Disneyland. It’s crawling with them.

  West Hollywood is usually safe, as long as you don’t go near the bars on Sunset. Be careful near the reservoir. Beverly Hills is a death trap.

  I try to avoid downtown altogether. That’s where the big ones hide. As a general rule, I don’t fuck with anything that’s large enough to use a skyscraper as camouflage.

  —

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Batman takes a lurching step away from the wall. Jack Sparrow sees it coming and mutters something to the cartoon badger. They watch impassively as Batman leans over the trash can and h
eaves up his lunch. A few of the tourists look repulsed, but most seem delighted. They stand in a rough circle, phones out, recording the vomiting crime fighter. Here at last is the authentic Hollywood they came to experience.

  I reach inside the folds of my jacket and absently run my fingers along the blade. The sporting-goods store called it a “parang,” but that’s just another fancy word for machete. Eight inches of curved steel attached to a textured neoprene grip. It’s made for cutting firewood, but it should work for my purposes.

  If I can lure that thing close enough.

  I let my eyes flicker upward, just for a second. The creature is still across the street, balanced carefully on its hind legs. It’s not the biggest one I’ve ever hunted, but it’s damn close. At the moment, its entire head is jammed through one of the third-story windows of the Roosevelt Hotel. It has been rooting around in there for almost forty-five minutes now.

  I can’t imagine what’s taking place inside that hotel room.

  What would happen if I placed an anonymous call to the Roosevelt and told them one of their guests was being murdered? Most likely nothing. Even if I could somehow convince them, even if they sent up hotel security to kick down the door, what would they actually see? Probably some failed pop singer from Kentucky, sprawled across the hotel bed with a pill bottle in her hand and a throat clogged with white foam. Or maybe a lonely old man floating in a bathtub, both wrists opened, the water stained black with blood. Give the creatures this much credit: they’re fanatical about cleaning up their messes. The bodies they leave behind rarely arouse suspicion.

  One thing’s for certain: the security guards wouldn’t see the creature’s wedge-shaped head, flat and ugly, protruding through the solid wall like some kind of demented hunting trophy.

  You don’t see them unless you know where to look.

  —

  I suppose anyone who undergoes a life-changing experience—call it an awakening, an epiphany, or just a nervous fucking breakdown, it’s all the same to me—emerges on the other side with a story. You feel an overpowering need to explain to other people why your nice, orderly life suddenly jumped the tracks. Why a part of you simply left and never came back.