Worse Than Myself

by Adam Golaski

  They all looked down at their own bags.

  Kallista said, “There’s your bag.” She pointed to the backpack set on the ground beside Genevieve.

  “Yeah. That’s my other bag.”

  Hammond said to Genevieve, “Ease up.” He put a hand on Kallista’s back. “This is a little girl. A bus’ll be here in twenty minutes. Your bag will be fine.”

  Instead of irritation, Genevieve felt bad. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be such a—” she looked at Kallista and curbed her language. “I’m tired. I hate busses and I hate sitting in freezing cold bus stations even more. But I am sorry.”

  Walter put his hand on Genevieve’s shoulder. She gave Walter a look and he took his hand away.

  Hammond looked at Kallista. “Okay?” Kallista nodded.

  Walter said, “So,” he looked at Hammond, “What was your name?”

  “Hammond.”

  “So, Hammond, what’s that new job you’re starting?”

  “At a lumber yard. I’ll be cutting lumber.”

  Genevieve asked, “You’re a carpenter?”

  Walter laughed.

  Kallista said, “He’s more like a lumberjack.”

  Hammond smiled. “That’s closer. I do dumb work. What about you?”

  Genevieve said, “I’m a grad student.” She was embarrassed by this.

  Hammond nodded. Walter asked, “What are you studying? I’m a professor, or, rather, I was a professor. History.”

  “Folklore.” Genevieve looked at Kallista and Hammond, who both looked confused. Most people did when she talked about her work, so she’d come up with an explanation she thought was interesting and easy to understand. “I study stories about monsters and things like that.”

  Hammond grinned. Kallista said, “Cool.” Hammond said, “Where you headed?”

  “Dillon.”

  Walter asked, “For research?”

  “I wish. No. I feel stupid now. An old boyfriend invited me, and I just broke up with a jerk, and, you know. I don’t why I’m telling you all of this. I guess because I’ll never see any of you again. How about you?” She asked Walter. “And you?” She looked at Kallista.

  Walter said to Kallista, “You’re going to live with your grandmother, right?” Kallista nodded. “I’m visiting an old friend—a little bit like your old friend—what’s your name?”

  “Genevieve.”

  “Genevieve. Lovely.” He tapped his knee. “A bit like you, but many more years have passed. I just retired. And, because of some bad—we’ll say investments—I’m broke.”

  Genevieve disappointed Walter when, instead of asking him to explain further, she asked Kallista, “Why are you going to live with your grandmother?”

  Kallista looked down at her shoes.

  Hammond said, “You don’t have to say.”

  Hammond stood up. Kallista asked, “Where—”

  “I’m just going to the door, to take a look.”

  Hammond walked to the front door. Kallista followed—Genevieve thought Kallista might grab onto Hammond’s leg, then thought, with a smirk, that she’d certainly like to. Kallista and Hammond stood at the door. Genevieve decided to join them. As she stood—her head rushed a bit—she heard Kallista ask, “What time is it?” Hammond said, “One-fifty.”

  Hammond sighed when he looked outside. Kallista said, “Look, it’s snowing.”

  Genevieve stood next to Hammond, behind Kallista. The snow made her nervous. Hammond took out his cigarettes, glanced around, spied the No Smoking sign, and lit up. He said to Kallista, “You won’t ever do this, will you?” Kallista nodded gravely. Genevieve smiled. The snow had accumulated quite a bit. In what, Genevieve wondered—ten minutes? Kallista said, “There are tracks,” and Genevieve could see them too. Dog prints, she assumed, but Kallista asked, “What kind of prints are they?” Genevieve and Hammond looked closer and saw that they looked like human prints—small, and only the front half of the foot. Genevieve noticed splotches of red around one of the prints. Hammond said, “Kallista, why don’t you go back to the heaters. It’s freezing.”

  “I’m not cold.”

  “Come on. You’re cold. I’ll be right over.” Reluctantly, Kallista obeyed. The more Genevieve looked, the more blood she saw. Never large stains, just splotches.

  Genevieve was about to say something about the blood and the prints, to air out the situation, when one of the animals emerged from the shadows and charged the door.

  That’s not a dog, Genevieve thought. The animal hit the door hard—on the glass a smear of greasy blood. Kallista screamed, drowning out the sounds Genevieve, Walter, and Hammond all made. Genevieve grabbed Hammond’s arm—Kallista and Walter hung back—Walter held Kallista’s shoulder so she couldn’t run. The animal stood, stunned, then staggered back into the shadow. Genevieve asked the question aloud, “What was that?” When Hammond didn’t reply she added, in a low voice, “It looked like a little girl.”

  Genevieve’s Bad Dream

  was a recurring dream, a dream she’d first started to have during the month before her breakup.

  And had ceased having shortly after the breakup.

  Until she’d fallen asleep on the bus.

  The university library windows were opaque. Genevieve put her face to a window. Not night, the glass was black, she knew because at night from the library windows she usually saw the lamps that followed along the walkways, and stars, and the moon. When had the glass been changed? And to what purpose?

  Her books were unopened. On her desk was a thermos cup of coffee and a foil chocolate wrapper. Evidently she’d smoothed the foil and folded it into a triangle, though she could not remember doing so. She was compelled to unfold the foil, smooth it out again, and fold it again.

  When finally she was able to put the foil aside and open a book, she discovered she couldn’t read it because of the flickering of the fluorescent bulb above her; this light obscured rather than made clear.

  Genevieve moaned; a sort of surge of anxiety came over her; out of the corner of her eye, a reflection in the window, a wispy figure moved. She knew she had to read the material set in front of her. That she would fail an exam or be unable to write a paper or something worse would happen if she wasn’t able to read and understand the material. She spotted the figure again. A small figure, an undergrad, she thought, moved from one stack to another. As she looked after the undergrad, she saw a man, dressed in dark colors, appear from where the small figure had come. The man looked at Genevieve and said, “Hello.”

  How had she not she recognized her own boyfriend?

  She said his name, then, “I’m so glad you came. I can’t work at all. What are you doing here?”

  “Just going through the stacks,” he said. Somehow Genevieve thought this was meant to be funny and so she laughed. He didn’t. He walked in the direction where the undergrad had gone.

  “Where are you going?”

  She found herself unfolding the chocolate foil to smooth it out once more. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been at it. The thin square of foil threatened to flake apart. She forced the folded foil down, and followed her boyfriend. She knew he could calm her, would make simple suggestions that would make it possible for her to study, or maybe even take her back to his apartment. She would’ve gone willingly, and gladly ignored her work for pleasure.

  He was on his knee, looking at a mark on the floor.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. He looked over his shoulder at her, jumped up, and ran off. She called his name. His footfalls were muffled and beneath that noise was another: a quick, wet sound. The mark on the floor looked to her like a footprint made by a small, bare foot. She touched the mark. It was wet. Her fingertip came back red. She was not surprised. She rubbed the blood off onto her jeans. She knew the mark was left by the undergraduate who was not an undergraduate.

  But the lone print confused Genevieve. The story it told, as if the undergraduate had jumped from the stacks, landed on one, bloody foot, only to leap
up again. Genevieve looked up. Were there prints across the top of the stacks?

  She found herself back at her desk, folding the foil into another neat triangle. The glare from her book hurt her eyes. She was never going to get anything done, she thought. She called her boyfriend’s name.

  He was right in front of her. The bulb above still flickered and made it impossible for Genevieve to get any sense of her boyfriend’s details—what he was wearing, his expression. There was, she was sure, a black luminosity about him. She was sure he was looking directly at her, then just as sure that he’d looked away. He walked away, gave no indication he even heard her when she pleaded with him to just stay, to please just stay.

  She went quiet when she saw the undergraduate, who must have been hiding behind her boyfriend. It was small, with the physique of a child. Though it wore no clothes, its sex was impossible to tell; it had no skin. For a moment it did nothing. Genevieve frantically unfolded the piece of foil on her desk. When the undergraduate dropped down onto all fours, its blond hair brushed the floor.

  Walter called to Hammond and Genevieve from the circle of heaters: “Why don’t you two come back here away from the door.”

  Hammond didn’t reply.

  Genevieve turned to Walter and said, in a low, serious voice, “Can we barricade the doors?”

  “With what?” Then Walter asked: “Why?”

  Hammond said, “The bus will be here any moment and when it comes it’ll scare away the—” Hammond seemed to think for a moment before completing his sentence—“dogs.”

  Genevieve said, “Maybe.” She let go of Hammond and walked to the ticket booth. She rattled the locked door.

  Walter said, “What are you doing?”

  Genevieve didn’t answer, just rattled the ticket booth door. Walter left the circle of heaters and Kallista and stood behind Genevieve. He said, “Maybe we could use the benches to block the door.” Genevieve nodded vigorously. Walter said to Hammond, “Give me a hand.”

  Hammond shrugged. He picked up an end of a bench. Kallista paced back and forth between the front door and the ticket booth. The back door banged. Genevieve screamed and started to kick at the ticket booth door. Hammond dropped his end of the bench. Walter took a timid step toward the back door, to try to see what had left a smear on the glass. He asked, “Genevieve, why did you want to barricade the doors?”

  Kallista ran over to Hammond and—

  A bang against the front door, and another—

  The front and back doors shook in their aluminum frames. The animals threw themselves against the glass. Walter was positive there were more than just two animals out there, that they were taking turns, systematically weakening the hinges, the glass. He could see that the animals—whatever they were—they didn’t look like dogs—were circling the station, and now he saw dozens, moving in and out of sight. They moved on all fours like dogs and they were covered in blood and yellow globs of fat—except for the tops of their heads: there dangled long, matted hair—

  Kallista stared out the front door. Shock, Walter thought. Struck dumb. And why not?

  Genevieve put her back to the ticket booth door, stood wide-eyed. Walter said, under his breath, “I can’t believe this. This is my nightmare—” And the animals stopped circling the station.

  They stopped circling, and they howled. Such a high pitched howl, the glass doors trembled. Walter was sure the glass would shatter. Genevieve and Hammond covered their ears, but Kallista—

  The bus rumbled toward the station. Hammond looked at his watch and shouted, “Right on time! Right on time!”

  Genevieve and Walter went up to the front door, stood just behind Hammond.

  The bus stopped. The door opened and the driver stepped down off the bus. The same driver that had brought them there. And all of a sudden Walter was sure it was the same bus, that the driver hadn’t gone anywhere. Hammond banged against the glass door and shouted at the driver, shouted at him to look out, made frantic gestures that from the other side of the glass was a ludicrous pantomime. The driver took no notice. The driver unlatched the storage under the bus and took out a duffel bag.

  Genevieve said, “That’s my bag.” Walter almost said, Of course, but kept his mouth shut. The driver turned—his back to the bus—and looked at the four passengers in the station. Very slowly, the driver unzipped the duffel bag. Genevieve said, “What is he—” The driver began to remove, one by one, the items in the bag. Sweatpants. A bra. T-shirts. And so on. He tossed each item onto the snow. One of the animals emerged from a shadow and sniffed at the pile of clothes. The driver dropped the empty bag on the ground. He reached to his belt, and unhooked a set of keys.

  Hammond, Walter, and Genevieve stepped away from the door. Genevieve said, “We’re okay, now, right? We’re going to be okay.” The driver unlocked the door and opened it wide. There was a black luminosity about the driver. The driver vibrated; a haze of blur, a halo.

  The driver stepped into the station. He looked at Kallista and touched her head. She relaxed, closed her eyes and saw a soft sun behind her eyelids. As if pushing a finger into jelly, the driver pushed his hand through the white skin of Kallista’s forehead, pushed down until his arm was half way inside her. Kallista’s skin became raw all over, and she clawed at her clothes. The driver twisted his arm as he pulled it out of Kallista—her jaw dropped open, and she moaned a low moan of ecstasy. Her lips withered around her mouth.

  The animals filed in and formed a circle around the driver and Kallista. Perhaps twenty or more. Their bodies wept blood and lymph. They had no lips. Their human teeth shone. One of the animals reared up on its hind legs and stood. Like Kallista’s own, its hair was long and blond.

  THE MAN FROM THE PEAK

  The sun left tatters in shades of red across the sky; tatters that shriveled through purple, indigo—to black. The stars didn’t come out. Instead, oil-gray clouds. I kept the car going, up, steering around the worst ruts and rocks in the road. I drove under the no trespassing sign, kept driving up. The forest around me was thick—the leaves had come in, hearty and wet: spring. I wondered if this would be the last time I’d make the drive up to Richard’s. I thought so. Richard was leaving. Moving east. So, a farewell bash. Sarah would be there, too. With a sound like marbles clicking, or teeth, the wine bottle and the whiskey bottle on the passenger seat bumped against each other.

  Richard’s house stood in the shadow of the mountain’s peak. I turned off the car and sat, let my eyes adjust to the darkness, listened to cooling engine skitter. The walk to Richard’s was lined with paper lanterns—no doubt Sarah’s touch. I grabbed the bottles, set them on the roof of the car, lit a cigarette and looked up the peak. I heard people talking—some of the voices outside, from the hot tub, no doubt, and muted voices from the house. There were a dozen cars parked in front of my own. I opened the back door of the car and took out a small package—a book for Sarah, a collection of short stories she and I had talked about the last time the three of us—Richard, Sarah and I—had been together. I tucked the book under my arm, took the bottles and walked up to the house. I rang the bell and a woman wearing a bikini opened the door. She looked at me—looked me up and down as if I were wearing a bikini—laughed a little and brushed past me outside. As she passed, she asked, “Did you bring your suit?”

  The house was long and narrow. To my left was the guest room, to my right a kitchen and a television room/bar. Michael, an old friend of Richard’s who I’d come to like, was busy mixing drinks. He’d explained to me once that he took up the role of bartender at parties so he could get to know all the women. I approached the bar and said, “I’d say the hot tub is where you want to be tonight.” Michael nodded, ruefully. I handed Michael the bottles I’d brought. “Good stuff,” he said. “Good to see you,” he said. I shook his hand and patted his shoulder. “What’ll you have?” he asked. “A glass of that whiskey,” I said. He said, “Try this instead,” and poured from an already open bottle. I put my cigarette out in a red-gl
ass ashtray by the bar and had a sip. I nodded my appreciation. “I should announce myself,” I said, and backed away.

  The living room: a large, open space dominated by a fat couch and a grand piano (Richard didn’t play). Sarah was on the couch drinking wine. When she saw me, she stood, crossed the room with a quick, woozy stride and put her arms around me.

  “Watch the wine,” I said.

  She stepped back from me, a wounded expression on her face. I took her glass and rested it on the piano. She put her arms around me again and said, “I get so excited when you come. I always do. It’s so silly. I always am so excited to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you too.” We kissed, as we did whenever we saw each other; I’m not sure how this greeting got started, but our kisses were long and on the lips; she’d been dating Richard as long as I’d known her.

  “Have you seen Richard yet?” she asked.

  “I just got here.”

  “Can I?” She tapped the cigarette box in my breast pocket. She slipped her fingers into the pocket and smiled at me. “You always have the best cigarettes.” As she lit up, she eyed the wrapped package under my arm.

  “It’s for you,” I said.

  She unwrapped my gift, dropped the brown paper to the floor. “You found a copy,” she said. She opened the book, careful with the spine, a delicate touch on the yellow edge of each page she turned over. “You’re the only one who ever gets me books.” She tapped her necklace: an elegant, expensive silver knot. “Richard always buys me jewelry,” she said, with a frown.

  We caught up, a little; a little about Richard’s preparations for leaving, though we skirted the issue of whether or not she’d be going. We would have that conversation later. I needed to drink a little more, to meet everyone. I looked past Sarah, at the women on the couch. Sarah said, “That one’s Carmilla—she’s a stunning bore—and that’s Kat—fun, fun, fun. They’re friends of Richard’s. From where, I do not know. Come, I need more wine.” We left her glass on the piano, made our way up to the bar. She fell into a conversation with Michael. I walked off—I didn’t feel like standing around while Sarah and Michael talked.