Dead Spell

by Belinda Frisch

  She dialed the number and the phone rang continuously without ever going to voicemail.

  Joan refreshed the web page until the most recent call appeared. “The last call is from that number, Jim. I need to know whose it is.”

  “Fine, but that’s where it ends.” He called the station and wrote down a name and address on a piece of junk mail Joan had sitting on the coffee table. “Adam Krier. Name ring a bell?”

  “Not really, no. But, wait, isn’t that the guy from the station the night Brea got picked up with Harmony.”

  “I think I knew this guy’s sister. She was killed a few years back out on Route 32. He lives on Washington Street in the Manor View Apartments, 12B.”

  “What else did they say about him?”

  “What else? Nothing else. It’s bad enough I did that.”

  “Will you please just stop by there. Make something up. Knock on his door. See if she’s there.”

  “No, Jo. No way. If he complains, it’s my ass. I don’t need that kind of heat at work.”

  “Please, Jim. Something’s wrong with Brea and if I go over there—and I will go over there if you don’t—it’s only going to get worse. Don’t be intimidating; let your uniform do the talking. I’m just asking you to knock on the door.”

  A female voice crackled over his radio. “Jim, are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here. Go ahead.”

  “We got a 10-52 over at Manor View, two kids outside of building C. Neighbor called it in.”

  “Looks like it’s your lucky day. I’ll check it out after this call, all right?”

  “Call me as soon as you know something.”

  “I will. Brea’s a good kid, Jo. She’s been through a lot.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “She’ll be fine. She’ll pull through this. She always does.”

  Joan watched his cruiser take off from the window—lights and sirens—and started to cry.

  35.

  Brea wrapped her wet hair up in a towel and put on one of Adam’s smaller tee shirts and a pair of cut off sweatpants he said was Harmony’s favorite. The shower relaxed some of her tension, but her head was pounding and she took a couple of ibuprofen, hoping to calm it down.

  It was almost 6:00 and she was sure her mother was looking for her. Probably her uncle was, too. She tried not to think of herself as a runaway, but nothing else fit.

  Going home meant lockdown and no shot at figuring out what happened to Harmony or Tom.

  “Feeling better?” Adam was stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce and sipping a glass of wine.

  She nodded. “I figured you for a beer guy.”

  “You figured wrong.” He smiled and handed her a soda.

  She set it down on the counter and poured herself a glass of the merlot he was drinking.

  “Not exactly a headache remedy.”

  Brea took a sip. It was harsh and hard to swallow. “But it should help with the stress right?”

  “I guess. Have you ever even had alcohol, I mean more than the glass Moms give out on holidays?”

  “I can handle it.” The doorbell rang. “Want me to get that?”

  The window in the kitchen faced the entrance to the parking lot. A car pulled in and Adam peered between the slats of the closed blinds. Brea’s uncle was trying to look inside.

  “No,” Adam said. “I want you to hide and don’t come out until I tell you.”

  “Uh…”

  “It’s your uncle.” The bell rang again, and again, and then three more times in quick succession. “Go,” Adam said. “He has no legal right to come in here as long as he can’t see anything that proves you’re here.”

  Brea went into the bathroom and closed the door, listening to the conversation happening outside.

  “Can I help you?” Adam’s tone was a cross between “so good to see you” and “fuck off”.

  “Are you Adam Krier?”

  “You know I am, Jim. Don’t you remember me? Or my sister, maybe?”

  “I’m looking for a runaway by the name of Brea Miller. She’s 16, brown hair…”

  “She’s your niece.”

  Jim cleared his throat. “Yes, she’s my niece. Someone said they saw her here.”

  “Tell someone they’re wrong. Brea was a friend of my girlfriend’s—Harmony Wolcott. You know her family, too. I haven’t seen her since Harmony’s funeral.”

  “May I come in a minute?” He stepped forward like he expected Adam to say yes, but he stopped him.

  “Actually, yes, I do mind. And if you don’t have a warrant, I’d like you to leave, please. I’ve been through enough the past couple of weeks. If I hear anything, I’ll call you.”

  The door closed, the deadbolt clicked, and the rest of the blinds whirred closed.

  “All clear.” Adam opened the bathroom door. “You can come out.”

  Brea felt terrible and embarrassed. “Adam, I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble. He has no right to be here. I guarantee that. Your mother must’ve figured out where you were and sent him over. Don’t worry about it.” He pulled her close, resting his chin on her head and breathing in the shampoo that Harmony used to use.

  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I see why Harmony loved you.”

  “Right back at ‘ya. Come on and let’s eat.”

  He plated a heap of spaghetti and sauce on the plate and topped off his glass of wine.

  Brea slurped up a forkful, but had trouble using her left hand. After the hot shower, her right hand was throbbing. Sauce spilled down her chin and he handed her a napkin. “I’m a terribly lefty.” She held up her swollen right.

  “You’ve got a mean jab, Brea.” He wrapped a frozen gel pack in a kitchen towel and laid it across her knuckles

  “That girl, Rachael, she was asking for it.”

  “She’s the one Harmony was protecting you from?”

  “She told you?”

  “She told me almost everything.”

  “It’s about time I stood up to her on my own.”

  “Harmony would’ve been proud.”

  * * * * *

  The night ticked by and the closer it got to time to go to bed, the more tension built between Brea and Adam. It was after ten and the heat of someone finding her had cooled to a simmer.

  Whatever lines her mother had drawn, she crossed them.

  Lying on the couch next to Adam, she thought about crossing others. Her headache was gone and her hand felt better. His breath against the back of her neck made her body tighten with yearning. She pulled his arm around her so that his hand rested on her breast and shifted to feel him more fully against her.

  They stayed like that for what seemed like ever before he worked up to his lips on the back of her neck. He kissed her, gently, and withdrew as if testing her reaction. When she didn’t immediately respond, he did it again, lingering a little longer—holding her a little tighter.

  She couldn’t believe what was happening, but she wanted it. She wanted him.

  She rolled over to face him and neither said a word.

  His lips were soft against hers, his kiss skilled and passionate encouraging a deepness it didn’t take long to emulate.

  He worked his hands up the length of her sliding off her tee and somehow making her feel safe. Nothing about his approach was rushed and she melted under his tender exploration. He slid his knee between hers, spreading her legs and settled on top of her. Her eyes were closed and when she lifted her hands to his face, she felt something warm and gelatinous.

  She opened her eyes and screamed as her fingers sank into the right side of his brain.

  36.

  Brea couldn’t explain the hallucination other than to blame Tom. His attacks were unpredictable and as her and Adam looked for a second flashlight and a make-shift weapon in his truck outside of the Maple Street house, she could only keep apologizing.

  “I’m really sorry to do this to you.” She held their one flashlight while Adam searched und
er the truck’s seat for a second. “I just have to find out what’s going on.”

  Adam smirked. “It’s not exactly where I thought this night was headed, but creepy ghost hunting it is.”

  His sense of humor made her feel some better.

  He found the other flashlight and a switchblade under the driver’s seat and handed them to her.

  “How are we going to crack that basement door?”

  “Carefully and while looking up.” He held up a small hatchet. “I haven’t used this thing since camping like five years ago. Ready?”

  Brea followed the light on the gravel driveway, the stone crushing beneath her feet. She breathed in the smell of chimney smoke from the houses in the distance and tried not to think of home. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  The door was already open.

  Adam pushed it a little wider. “Did you leave it like this?”

  “Uh-uh.” She shook her head “no”. “I shut it behind me.”

  “Charity? Are you in here?” Adam panned the sinking living room floor with the flashlight. His voice echoed. “Charity, it’s Adam and Brea. Are you here?” He went inside. “Watch your step and stay near the edge.”

  “What do you think I was doing?” Brea kept her back to the wall and crept across the living room wall like she was walking a skyscraper’s ledge.

  “One quick sweep of the place, a look in the basement, and we’re out of here, agreed?”

  Now that she was back here, Brea wished they waited until morning. “Fine, you work on the door and I’ll look and see if Charity’s here.”

  Brea started in the kitchen and moved to the garage. “Charity? Are you here?” She swept the room with the flashlight. The cover was off the IROC; if Charity wasn’t here, she or someone else had been. “Charity?” She walked around the car and stepped back up into the kitchen.

  “Anything?” Adam tried prying the basement door before resorting to the hatchet

  “No, nothing, but the car’s uncovered.”

  “Car?”

  “You never went in the garage?”

  “No, because Charity never hid out there. This isn’t my hang out.”

  “Well there’s an IROC under the car cover.”

  “Sweet.”

  “I don’t think she’s here. Are you going to be able to open that door?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t see for shit. If I can’t get it easily, it’s going to have to wait until tomorrow.”

  “Here, let me help you.”

  “You’ve taken one to the head already today. Wait for me in the living room where it’s a little safer.”

  Brea stepped over the threshold. The air went ice cold; colder, even, than it was outside. A breeze whipped through her hair and two hands pressed into her back. “Adam.” She screamed and something shoved her into the middle of the living room floor. Her feet crashed through two of the boards and she felt the hot, wet trickle of blood down her legs. “Help.” she screamed. “Help.”

  Adam came running, but couldn’t easily reach her. “Hang on.”

  She slipped further through and grabbed the edge of the throw rug he was standing on. “Please, help.” Her flashlight crashed to the basement floor and she started to cry.

  “Grab my hand.” Adam got on his knees and hooked his foot into a hole under a sturdy piece of molding.

  She stretched as far as she could and fell even further. “I can’t reach.”

  He crawled as close to her as he could get and the whole floor caved, sending them both to the cement below.

  Pieces of the living room fell on them like heavy rain: flooring, basement ceiling, chunks of brick from the decomposing fireplace mantel. Something crushed Brea’s left arm and she screamed. She turned her head. The moonlight shining through the basement window revealed the legs of the blood-stained chair.

  “Adam, are you all right?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Adam, answer me. Are you ok?”

  There was a loud crack. A shadow swept in fast, pressing against her, crushing her chest.

  Everything went black.

  37.

  Brea watched history unfold around her. Pat Benatar played in the background as Charity said goodbye to the last of her guests. The house was filled with cigarette smoke and the smell of stale beer. A keg was tapped in the living room and red, plastic cups were everywhere.

  “Great party, Charity. We looked for Tom, but we couldn’t find him. Tell him we said thanks, would you?”

  Brea watched in retrospect, transported to Tom’s last night. She was omniscient and floating like an out of body experience, but her mind was anchored to the present, to the broken down house where she was trapped and dying.

  “Tom?” Charity walked around looking for him. She was drunk and staggering. She reached in the medicine cabinet and took out her pills. “Shit.” They were empty. “Tom, where are you?”

  She went through the house room by room and found him passed out in Harmony’s bed. She threw off the covers and he was alone. “What the fuck did you do? Tom, wake up.” She punched and slapped him. “Tom, answer me!”

  “What, why are you screaming? Harmony had a stomach ache, she threw up. I rinsed everything out in the sink and I climbed in bed with her. I fell asleep.”

  “Where’s the baby? Where’s Harmony?”

  “She must’ve heard you screaming again and got scared.”

  “I don’t believe you.” Charity heard crying coming from the cabinet of the built-in. She opened the door and Harmony was curled up inside. “How could you? You don’t think I see how you’re always hugging her and kissing her?” Charity wailed. “No, no…no…”

  “She’s my daughter, Charity. What the hell are you accusing me of here? Are you off your pills again? I didn’t…”

  Charity smashed a pink, ceramic piggy bank over Tom’s head and knocked him unconscious. “I won’t let you do to her what they did to me.” Full of rage, she dragged him to the top of the basement stairs and shoved him down. “Did you think I wouldn’t know?”

  She pulled the string of the single bulb light hanging from the basement ceiling and the room filled with a pale yellow light.

  Tom grunted when she rolled him over.

  She hooked her arms under his and propped him up in a metal legged kitchen chair, binding his hands and feet. “Wake up,” she said. “Wake up, you sick fucking pervert.”

  Tom’s eyes fluttered open and then closed again.

  “I said, wake up.”

  He tried to talk, but his words slurred.

  She opened a small, wooden lock box and his eyes went wide. It was his handgun.

  When he tried to protest, she tied a knotted gag into his mouth. She was crazed, wide-eyed, and manic.

  Tom struggled to get free and Harmony appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “Come here, baby,” Charity said letting down the gun.

  Harmony’s footie pajamas scuffed on the stair tread as she slid down on her butt. She looked at her mother and at her father tied up in the chair. “Daddy?”

  “Come here and sit with Mommy, Harmony.”

  Tom started to cry, blood and tears running down his face.

  “Give me your hand, honey.” Harmony’s tiny hand barely fit around the trigger. “Daddy’s been bad and we can’t let him get away with it.”

  Charity squeezed Harmony’s hand and the gun discharged twice, spraying blood everywhere; tearing the right side of Tom’s jaw away and scattering teeth and brain matter.

  Harmony screamed as the empty half of her father’s face moved like he was trying to say something and then went utterly still.

  38.

  Brea opened her eyes and then quickly closed them. The box light over the head of her hospital bed was bright and it burned to look at it. She opened her mouth to talk, but her throat was raw, nearly swollen shut. “How did I get here?” she asked, vaguely remembering an ambulance ride that she couldn’t discern was real or the dream. Maybe they use
d the GPS on her phone, or maybe her mother played a hunch. Either way, she was glad someone found her.

  “Don’t talk, honey.” Joan adjusted her pillows and blanket. “It’s from surgery. They had to put a tube in your throat.”

  A cast with pins sticking out of it immobilized Brea’s left arm and she tried to wiggle her fingers. The pain, even as drugged as she felt, made it impossible. “Adam,” she whispered her voice foreign and gravelly. She smacked her lips together.

  “Are you thirsty?” Joan slid a couple of flat ice chips between her severely chapped lips and they quickly dissolved. “The surgeon said you’d be dry when you woke up.”

  Brea tried not to remember what she saw. “What happened?”

  “You broke your arm in three places, but the doctor says you’ll be fine.”

  “Mom, where’s Adam?”

  “You need to rest your voice, honey.” Joan clicked off the overhead light. “That’s better, right?”

  Brea looked out her hospital room door at the nurse in blue scrubs talking to her Uncle Jim. Both Pat and Mike were in uniform behind him and she knew something was wrong. She grabbed her mother’s hand. “Mom, is Adam here? Is he all right?”

  “Hey, look who’s here to see you.”

  “Dad?” For a minute, Brea wasn’t sure she recognized him. His once brown hair was almost completely gray and the lines on his face had deepened despite his increased weight.

  Joan lowered her head as he walked in to the room.

  He roughed Brea’s hair like she was five again. “Good to see you, kiddo. You gave us a hell of a scare.”

  The others followed him in.

  Pat’s face was easiest to read of all. “How are you feeling, Brea?”

  “I’m okay. Can I talk to Dad alone, please?”

  Joan held a half a cup of ice water in front of her and bent the straw for her to sip. The water swirling around in her empty stomach made her nauseous.

  “I’m too tired to ask again.” She winced and Joan pushed the button on the pump that delivered another straight shot of morphine.