Transcription

by Ike Hamill

  “Okay,” James said. “Thanks.”

  “You’re on the list. You just need to take ID with you.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  He should have realized—it was not a random conversation.

  # # # # #

  James woke with the dawn. He switched off his radio and let his eyelids fall again. He would get another hour or so of sleep with no clacking typewriter and no radio to disturb him. Even though it was after dawn, the typewriter began chattering again.

  James banged on the wall. His dad’s office was across the hall, but James thought his point would still carry. It didn’t. The typing continued. James pulled his pillow over his head. He was sick of listening to the radio. Sunlight was supposed to bring relief from the typing. It always had in the past.

  James groaned and somehow managed to fall back asleep anyway.

  When he woke again, he saw that he had overslept.

  James pulled on his clothes and tried to squirm his feet back into his shoes without untying them. He threw open his door and headed for the bathroom. He didn’t have time for a shower, but he could at least swish some mouthwash around while he peed.

  The office door was still closed.

  Normally, his father would already be in the living room, drinking. James shrugged it off and tried to put it out of his head.

  When he finished in the bathroom, he came back down the hallway, picking up speed. If he drove a little faster than normal, he figured he could still make it in before Mr. Gregory walked the floor. His time card would be a little short, but at least he wouldn’t get yelled at.

  He slowed again when he saw his father’s door.

  James frowned and stopped. He knocked.

  “Dad?”

  No answer.

  “Dad? I’m going to work now. You okay?”

  He reached for the handle. It would be locked, but maybe if he jiggled the handle, his father would answer.

  He reached for the knob.

  “Don’t go in there,” his father said, gripping his arm.

  “Jesus, Dad, you scared the fuck out of me.”

  At least as scary as the arm grab, was the sight of his father. The man was shaved, showered, and held a hot cup of coffee instead of a beer.

  “Please, don’t ever go in there.”

  “Okay, whatever. I’ve gotta go, or I’m going to be late.”

  James darted around his father and ran for his car.

  # # # # #

  He pulled into the driveway, an hour before sunset, and put the car into reverse again. He didn’t want to go inside. Work had stretched on forever, and he was too tired to deal with whatever new weird stuff his father had come up with to torture him.

  James put his car back into park. He didn’t have anywhere else to go. He could stay with the Millers on a weekend, but it would be a huge imposition to stay there during the week. Everyone would be competing for morning showers, and it would just be strange. Besides, Mrs. Miller wasn’t as nice as she used to be. James got out of his car and decided he would watch a videotape. That would cheer him up.

  The house looked strange.

  He couldn’t put his finger on it.

  He’d spent his whole life in that same house, but it didn’t feel that way. He remembered a very different place from when he was a little kid. Back then, the yard was huge, the rooms were sunny, and everything felt joyful. Even when his parents were angry with each other, there was a warmth, a completeness, that had disappeared with his mother. When she had died, she took a corresponding part of both James and Thomas. They were incomplete.

  Now, the house looked even colder.

  James shook off the feeling as he approached the house.

  He squeezed through the front door, not opening it too far, so it wouldn’t creak. The house was dark. James wanted to avoid the kitchen and his father’s office. Those were the two places his dad was most likely to be. He kept his head down and ducked down the hall. James pushed into his room and closed the door behind him. In an hour or so, he could totally let his guard down. Once his dad started writing, he wouldn’t bother James until dawn.

  He hung his jacket on the door knob and dragged his headphones by their coiled cord. He flopped on the bed. The sealed envelope was face down. As he picked it up, James figured it was a bank statement. The envelope was wrong though. This was a letter. He flipped it over and saw that there was no address or stamp. It simply said “James” on it.

  He sighed.

  This was new. His father was always trying to “communicate with him,” but he always spoke in person. Now James had to deal with written correspondence as well.

  He opened the letter. As he read, his comprehension of the words on the page began to falter. His fingers clutching the paper grew numb. His body felt like it was full of lead, cold and unable to move from its location.

  # # # # #

  Dear James,

  I’m writing you letters for the coming years. You’ll find them in a box in my bedroom. Please follow the instructions on each envelope. I’ve given this a lot of thought and I hope you’ll trust me.

  I am a coward, but I wasn’t always. My strength and courage have been steadily eroding for years. I wish it weren’t so. I’ve documented everything I can, so that you’ll eventually understand how I became the person you’ve been living with.

  Regardless of what you think of me, it’s imperative that you follow my instructions regarding my writing.

  # # # # #

  The realization hit and James threw the letter to the side. He was up and out his door in one quick motion. He ran for the kitchen. The room was empty except for the waning daylight.

  “Dad?” James called. He pushed off the wall and ran back down the hall. His hand landed on the doorknob to the study, expecting it to be locked. The knob turned. James didn’t push it open. He had the urge to flee. He could hit the road and drive all night. His bank had branches in other towns—he would have enough money to scrape by.

  James backed away from the door.

  He didn’t take his eyes from it as he moved down the hall.

  Out in the yard, James glanced towards his car, but he didn’t go that direction. Instead, he ran. He ran down the street and around the corner. He veered into the street when he passed the spot where his mother was stabbed—he never used that patch of sidewalk. He caught his breath quickly when he arrived at the Millers’ house. James went down the drive and climbed the stairs of the back porch. They were all inside. Their little family was still complete.

  James knocked twice on the glass and then let himself in.

  “Hey, James, you’re just in time. Hope you’re in the mood for chicken,” Greta said.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Miller, but I just need to talk to Bobby real quick.”

  She studied James for a second before she nodded. He looked pale and tired, except for the two red patches, high on his cheeks.

  “Don’t be long,” she said. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

  Bobby got up from his spot at the table and followed James out onto the porch.

  “I need your help,” James said.

  “With what?”

  “It’s my dad,” James said. “I think he killed himself.”

  # # # # #

  Bobby shifted back and forth between his feet as they stood in the hall.

  “We should get my dad,” Bobby said. “Why don’t we call him. He’ll come right over.”

  “Because what if it’s nothing?” James asked. “What if I’m imagining this whole thing?”

  “Then wouldn’t he be typing?”

  James looked at his watch. “Not for another ten minutes.”

  Bobby nodded and swallowed hard.

  James reached for the doorknob. It was still unlocked. He turned the knob and pushed the door open with a big shove. It bounced off a stack of boxes as it swung.

  They were looking at a desk, a typewriter, and an empty chair.

  James exhaled.

  “Mr.
Hicks?” Bobby called. James jumped a little at the sound of Bobby’s voice.

  Bobby moved into the room first. He looked behind the door and started to weave through the columns of boxes, looking behind each one.

  “He’s not here, unless he’s inside these boxes,” Bobby said.

  James flipped on the light switch. The room was lit with a yellow glow. Through the windows the light was orange, and turning to purple.

  “Where’s the letter?” Bobby asked.

  “It’s back in my room,” James said.

  “And you checked the rest of the house? Maybe he went out for dinner or something.”

  “No,” James said. “He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t go out this close to sunset. He should be right here, getting ready to work.”

  Bobby ran his fingers down a stack of boxes. “Maybe he finished. Looks like he has worked enough.”

  The words, “Do Not Open,” were written in black magic marker on the side of a box. Bobby ran his fingers over it.

  “Help me look through the house, would you?”

  “Sure,” Bobby said.

  They started with the kitchen and worked their way back. It wasn’t a huge house—three bedrooms including the study, a couple of bathrooms, kitchen, living room, and dining room. They covered the space quickly, finishing in the master bedroom. James found the box with his name on it. The box was taped up and had instructions for him to not open it for another year.

  “I think he went out,” Bobby said as they stood in Thomas’s bedroom. “And this box doesn’t prove anything. He probably just wanted you to wait and open it when you were done with taking your year off. It’s probably just college stuff.”

  “Let me get the letter,” James said. “I never finished reading it.”

  He walked down the hall and Bobby followed him.

  Back in his own room, James scanned the rest of the document.

  # # # # #

  Regardless of what you think of me, it’s imperative that you follow my instructions regarding my writing. The boxes can’t be destroyed, and must never be opened. I beg you to trust me on this. I can’t explain why it’s so, or I fear I would risk your safety. You remember my friend Ron George? Think back to Ron, and I hope you’ll understand why I’m begging you to heed my warnings. I promised your mother that I would always keep you safe. The only way I can do that is if you trust me enough to stay away from that writing.

  I’ve spent the last several years of my life trying to avoid deadly consequences. What I’m suffering through is not a life worth living, but I don’t see a way out. My only solace each day is the thought that you’re still untainted by my mistakes. I know your life hasn’t been great, but you’re young and some day I hope you’ll forget about all this. Remember that your mother and I love you, regardless of where we are.

  I was never a spiritual person, but I’m not so stubborn that I can’t admit one thing—I can feel your mother’s love still watching over you. She’s there for you. She’s there for both of us. She would be so proud of the strong, independent man you’ve become. I’m proud too. More than I could ever express.

  I’m sorry, but I’ve become a coward. I can’t face another night where I have to choose between suffering the horror, or making someone else suffer in my stead.

  I love you.

  -Dad

  # # # # #

  James wiped the tears from his eyes and folded the letter.

  He turned towards the door. In an instant, he felt like he slipped backwards many years. He felt like he was a kid sitting on his floor and playing trucks. He was just a kid playing trucks and looking across the hall to where his father’s friend Ron was snooping where he shouldn’t. Soon his dad would start yelling, “Ron, no! Put that down! You can’t read that. What the fuck are you doing?”

  Bobby held a stapled stack of papers in his hand.

  “Bobby?” James asked. He forgot that he was trying to hide his tears. He moved through the door to the hall and then through to his father’s study. “Bobby?”

  “This is great stuff, man,” Bobby said. “This is better than Koontz, or Straub. It’s like King, but more action.”

  James snatched the papers from Bobby’s hand. He shoved them back into the box and put the lid back on.

  “You’re not supposed to read those,” James said. “My dad was real sensitive about them.”

  “Relax,” Bobby said. “All the rest of the boxes said don’t read, but this one didn’t.” He pointed at the box where he’d found the story.

  James frowned and turned the box around. The label was on the other side.

  “Oh, sorry,” Bobby said. “But that was a good story. It was about a guy who kills his whole family with silverware. Not knives, but like forks and spoons and…”

  “Stop,” James said. “I don’t want to hear it.” He walked over to his father’s desk and ran his fingers over the keys of the typewriter. A stack of blank paper sat to the left of the device. The space to the right was empty.

  “Your dad should publish those. Seriously.”

  “My dad’s missing, remember?”

  “Listen,” Bobby said. “I don’t want to sound mean or anything, but your dad drinks a lot. Maybe he just got extra drunk and he’s sleeping it off somewhere.”

  James shook his head. “You don’t understand my dad. His writing was everything. He never missed a night.”

  Bobby looked around, assessing the stacks of boxes again. “I’m willing to believe that.”

  James didn’t know what to do. He was trying to piece together a plan based on things he’d seen on TV. Didn’t you have to wait a certain amount of time before you filled out a missing person’s report?

  “Wait,” Bobby said.

  “What?”

  “What’s under here,” Bobby said. He stomped his foot a couple of times.

  “Nothing. There’s a, whaddyacallit, foundation under half the house and below the kitchen there’s a little cellar that has the water heater and furnace.”

  “We didn’t check down there. And there has to be some kind of attic, right?”

  “Nobody goes in those places,” James said.

  “We should check though. What if your old man got drunk and crawled into the cellar?”

  The thought made James uneasy. The only way down there was from the bulkhead, and it was a damp, dark place. As far as he knew, the only person who ever ventured down there was the furnace guy, who came every August.

  “Come on,” Bobby said. “Just for completeness.”

  “You and your completeness,” James said. He moved around Bobby and led the way down the hall.

  “Hey, how do you think I got into a powerhouse school like WPI?”

  “Yeah. Couldn’t be because you blew the Dean of Admissions.”

  “That’s a rumor!” Bobby said, laughing. “No pictures, no proof.”

  The screen door screeched as the spring stretched to its limit. James held it open for Bobby.

  “The bulkhead is over there,” James said, pointing down the side of the house.

  Bobby started in that direction.

  James stopped in his tracks.

  Off to his right, they had a picnic table in the center of the lawn. They never used it anymore. The only time anyone touched it was when they had to shift it over to mow underneath. James always put it back in its exact spot, where the feet of the table had killed the lawn.

  Someone was using it this evening,

  “Dad?” James called. He ran towards the figure. His father was slumped down with his head resting on his folded arms. “Dad?”

  “Oh, shit!” Bobby said. He trotted up behind James.

  James put his hand on his father’s shoulder and knew instantly. The shoulder was stiff and cold. His legs crumpled underneath him. When he spoke again, his voice was high and uncertain, like a boy’s voice. “Dad?”

  Bobby went in to make the call. He watched James through the window as he called his parents. With that done, he
returned to the back yard and approached his friend slowly. James was curled up on the ground, next to the picnic table. Bobby put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  It seemed like only moments later when Bobby turned at the sound of footsteps. His dad ran up and then pulled to stop. James didn’t look up to see Mr. Miller.

  Mike Miller checked the pulse and breath of Thomas Hicks. He knelt and tried to gather up James, to help him to his feet.

  “Come on, Jimmy, let’s get you up off the ground.”

  James was limp in his arms. Mr. Miller and Bobby managed to get James up and sit him in a lawn chair that Bobby found near the porch. When they heard the vehicles pull up out front, Mike sent his son around to greet them while he stayed with James. His wife, Greta, appeared with the medics.

  Bobby answered most of the questions. He gave them the timeline as he understood it. When they had to, they coaxed yes or no answers from James. When the questions were asked and answered, they wrapped James in a coat and guided him to the car. He was a moveable catatonic.

  # # # # #

  James woke to the sound of a scream.

  He held perfectly still, trying to place where he was. He still wore his jeans and t-shirt, but he was covered by a blanket. His pillow smelled dusty, and stale. When the sound of barking dogs met his ears, he began to form a theory.

  Time travel.

  He had somehow traveled back in his eighteen-year-old body to the worst night of his life. Somewhere out in the night, a skeleton-man lurked. If he rolled over, he would probably see that man, hovering outside the window. If he didn’t do something, the skeleton man would stab his mother on the street.

  James threw off his covers and sat up.

  The present caught up to him. It wasn’t time travel—he really was eighteen, and he was staying at the Millers’ because his father was dead. Reality was even worse than he had dreamed. Heaped upon the memory of his mother’s death, this night was now the worst ever. He’d lost the rest of his family.