The Ghosts Of Time

by K. Massari



  The Ghosts of Time

  by K. Massari

  Copyright ©2016 Karen Massari

  All rights reserved.

  This ebook is a work of fiction. The names, places, incidents and characters are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, or actual events or organizations, is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by www.tugboatdesign.net

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  I dedicate this book to my children. -the author

  The Ghosts of Time

  Dylan rushed into the store. Sure, why not buy a couple of donuts. The day had been grueling enough. A large bottle of pop, white sandwich bread and a big bag of potato chips. He would have wanted something else, something more, with ice cold vodka or gin in it.

  He smashed the groceries on the passenger side seat and drove down to the bay. His blood was at a boiling point. He banged the palms of his hands on the steering wheel. Why? Why was he always the fool?

  Looking out over the black water in the moonlight, he took a swig of soda, wishing for a beer or an espresso, and, inhaling deeply, he glanced instinctively into the rearview mirror. He saw a shadow … no, no, no, please! Not again. He’d been seeing a shadow in every mirror lately. Was he losing his mind now?

  “Mom, if you can hear me, stop it, okay? I’m fine!” he muttered out loud.

  He rubbed his face with his hands. He had to get home. He needed to calm down and get some sleep. How he dreaded going back to work in the morning. And it was only Monday. And they were riling him already.

  As much as he hated himself for it, at times like this, he thought back to when his mother was still alive. He remembered how she cooked and cleaned, how good the house smelled when she baked pumpkin pie, the warmth and the vanilla. He would ride his bike, but stay close to their home. He felt safe, loved.

  The other kids, of course, didn’t see it quite that way. “Do you live there?” they asked. “In that house?” “Really?” “I didn’t know anyone actually lived there!”

  It didn’t matter. Mom was gone now. Their house had been torn down. And with all the anger, the humiliation, roiling inside of him, he would never get any sleep. Dylan panicked. He wouldn’t be much good on the job if sleep-deprived. He needed to be alert, he couldn’t afford to make a mistake. Not with the way things were.

  Dylan put the car into gear and sped down Bay Street, past abandoned factories and abandoned docks. The boss had made him feel like shit. Wasn’t it time to get back at him? Dylan knew he was a pussy, had to be. He so desperately needed the money. This was his first real job in a long time. And he was good. He worked hard, his hands were caloused and bloody. What more did they want, anyway?

  The pressure was building. Going to the gym might help? How punching the jerk in the face would feel good! Maybe he should pay the sucker a little visit. Take a look at his sorry face one last time. Maybe even get out of the car and get in his face. Then all the millions of demons in Dylan’s head would stop screaming: REVENGE! GET EVEN! MAKE HIM PAY!

  Dylan knew where to go. He had googled the address often enough. He glanced in the rearview mirror again. He averted his eyes. He knew he was not alone.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  The supervisor’s house was dark. All the downstairs lights were off. Upstairs, there was a thin leak of golden light through a slit in the curtains. Dylan knew by Facebook there was a wife (who posted often and who posted everything); she was probably up there reading, waiting for her … big fat man … with a paycheck. Hard to imagine any woman would be turned on by the boss who was obese, balding and had a really bad temper.

  Maybe he hadn’t always been that way. Maybe he was different when he was not in a work environment. But it was close to impossible for Dylan to imagine him ever being … human. His boss was always in a bad mood, always short, he ran his mouth, a monster, through and through.

  While he was thinking about it, parked and irritable, Dylan heard giggling. Two young girls, teenagers, came running out from behind the man’s house. They were too engrossed in whatever they were carrying on about to notice him behind the wheel with his hood pulled over his head. He decided to drive two houses down. He didn’t want the cops to pay him a surprise visit. Just because the girls hadn’t let on that they saw him didn’t mean it hadn’t registered for them who he was and why he was there.

  The girls ran across the street and disappeared into another home. He knew his boss’s daughter from her Instagram fantasies, knew some of her friends. There had been a weird posting once about ‘Dylan, Dylan, the real villain’. It had made him sick for days.

  He drove slowly, carefully, inching along. He found a spot a block further, in front of a decaying house overgrown with shrubs and wild trees. Dylan put together a makeshift sandwich and checked his phone for messages. He hardly ever had messages, but he was always hopeful. Then he checked his rearview; sure enough, there was a shape in it, dark and brooding. It looked like a million dark bees, buzzing around, forming and dispersing, pulsating, … thinking.

  “Go away,” he muttered, chewing and admiring the high trees that lined the peaceful suburban street. Would he ever own a house like one of these?

  He saw himself riding his bike down the alleys of his childhood, while even his father had still stuck around with the small family, bringing home a decent paycheck, his mom pretty and dressed up for perfection. He remembered her red lipstick, how she had protected him always and warned him:

  “Don’t go near those train tracks, Dylan! Dylan, sweetheart, come back here. Stay on this street where Mommy can see you.”

  But he had wanted to go play with the other boys, he had wanted to play ball. His mother never allowed it. “They are the others and they aren’t like us,” she had informed him.

  “Why not?” he had asked, feeling hurt and alone.

  “They are … Americans!” she answered.

  “Aren’t we Americans?” he had asked. His mother had laughed out loud.

  “They don’t really have ancestors,” his mother had mouthed bitterly.

  An oncoming bus drowned out her voice and the images of the past. Dylan saw his boss getting off the bus and walking towards his car. Would he recognize the make and the model? Like the girls, the man walked past him, seemingly oblivious and so preoccupied, probably exhausted, so that he did not take notice of Dylan who sat motionless, but was still chewing. Maybe the man’s own car had broken down?

  Dylan slid into his seat and slouched a little, but there was no need to, really. Looking over his shoulder, he watched as the boss fumbled with his keys, dropped them, picked them up and pushed his way in. A woman’s voice reprimanded …

  “What happened? Where’ve you been? I’ve been waiting all this time!”

  Dylan brought his car to life and executed a hasty turn, to get closer, to listen in on the conversation. The voices carried to the outside of the house. He needed to know, he wanted to be up front and as good as inside.

  Downstairs lights popped on. There was more arguing. Dylan was beginning to enjoy his stalking episode. After many bitter words between husband and wife, a door slammed. The woman stomped her way to the upstairs bedroom.

  Dylan decided he needed to eat more. The boss was probably in the kitchen, organizing a sandwich too. Dylan felt comforted being near the bully who had so humiliated him hours earlier. He unpeeled a banana. He would stay a little longer, hear more shouting, maybe some rude and primitive love-making, then he would be able to calm down and move on.

  He would be able to sleep. Without sleep, it would be hell on earth trying to work the next day.