The Haunting of James Hastings

by Christopher Ransom

  ‘What am I supposed to do now?’

  ‘Up to you. Could hire an attorney. I’m sure you could find one who’d be happy to file a civil. Try to prove she knew about it a year ago and helped cover it up. Go after his auto policy. I don’t know what her assets are, but a jury would probably give you most of them, plus something for punitive.’

  ‘Punitive,’ I said.

  ‘You spent a year wondering what happened. Grieving, without closure. A psychologist might argue that you will now have to start over. The clock has been set back. I’m not saying that’s true - I’m not a shrink. How you deal with it is up to you. But as far as what a jury will believe, yeah, you’re the victim here.’

  ‘I could profit from Stacey’s death.’

  Bergen snorted. ‘Hey, you asked.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The idea of courtrooms and trials all for some money made me feel ill. ‘What I meant was, what am I supposed to do about her, this Annette?’

  ‘She took out a month to month lease. She seemed confused about why she moved in the first place, but it’s guilt. Call it a nightingale effect. She thinks she can help you, which will of course make her feel better. I told her that is not her job and she should refrain from further contact. I made sure she heard me.’

  I nodded. This all sounded so reasonable.

  Bergen leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘You don’t want her for a neighbor, we can make her go away. Easily.’

  This was, I admit, comforting. I imagined her packing up her U-Haul again, the LAPD escorting her out of West Adams, probably over the hill to the Valley.

  ‘Do you think she’s nuts?’ I said. ‘She’s got to be, right?’

  Bergen grinned. ‘No more than most of the beautiful women in this town.’

  ‘Is she dangerous, Tod?’

  ‘She’s been through the wringer. My take is she’s honestly trying to do the right thing, and that’s something. But if you decide to let her stay - and, really, it’s up to you, you’re calling the shots here - my advice would be to keep your distance. I’m not saying she’s dangerous, but you don’t need the headache.’

  I didn’t quite understand what he was getting at.

  Bergen put his hands out. ‘No offense, but between the two of you there’s enough trauma and bad juju to feed a shrink for decades.’

  ‘You’re saying don’t get involved?’ I scoffed. ‘Don’t worry about that.’

  ‘People don’t meet this way, James. Not happy people. And when they do, they don’t get any happier.’

  I pushed an oyster shell like a little sled around the dish of ice. ‘I know.’

  ‘Good. Have you met anyone? You at least get laid since last time we spoke?’

  ‘No.’ I thought of Lucy Arnold. ‘But I have a few feelers out.’

  A ringtone I recognized as the opening bass line to Aerosmith’s ‘Sweet Emotion’ began to play from under the table. Bergen flipped his clamshell and said, ‘Bergen’. He stood and I was given to understand someone else needed his investigative skills more than I did. ‘Tell Hayden to look at the AA files and call me as soon as he can. I’m on my way.’

  The clamshell clammed. ‘Sorry, bud, gotta motor.’ He dropped a twenty on the table and put on his Michael Mann sunglasses.

  I stood. We shook hands. ‘Thanks for the help.’

  ‘Call me if you have any problems with her,’ Bergen said. ‘But unless you go looking for it, I don’t think you will.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He hesitated before leaving. ‘James.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You’re young. You served your time. No one else is holding the keys to the cell now. Understand?’

  I did.

  I considered the situation very carefully and waited a whole week before I went to see her again.

  9

  As I stood on Mr Ennis’s porch and she opened the door without a greeting, I was reminded of those adorable but mildly hardened sitcom wives, the kind married to such a lovable schlub you think if he could land her maybe you could too. Given what she had been through, she should have looked worse. But maybe she was still in shock.

  ‘I just wanted to thank you for cooperating with Detective Bergen,’ I said. ‘He’s a good one. He looked out for me last year.’

  She nodded solemnly. An awkward moment stretched between us. When it seemed it would not pass, she stepped back.

  ‘Come in, have a seat.’

  I heard Bergen’s warning in my head as I stepped inside. I wondered what had happened to the turtle, Tiny Mr Ennis.

  ‘I would imagine you have more questions,’ she said, turning to the refrigerator.

  The living room, kitchen and hallway had been painted sunny shades of blue and yellow. She had moved in a set of wooden chairs and a round dining-room table, a bookshelf (still empty) and a few other tastefully out of place things: a roll-top desk with pigeon holes and a green leather surface, an expensive piece of exercise equipment, a small wafer-thin television standing on a wine cabinet with chicken-wire doors. I guessed she was serious about this.

  ‘I do,’ I said. ‘So many I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’

  ‘A beer if you have one.’ I pulled a chair from the little breakfast table in the kitchen, right about where the flowers would have been floating.

  She returned with two bottles of Budweiser. I accepted reluctantly. The King of Beers gives me headaches. She sat across from me, waiting for me to start.

  ‘I guess we’re neighbors,’ I said, tilting my bottle at her. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘For now. But I’ll be watching you.’ I wanted that to be laced with humor. It wasn’t.

  A minute of silence passed. I wondered what her husband had looked like. I made him bald, thin, hirsute. Sweaty.

  ‘You don’t sound like you’re from Los Angeles,’ she said.

  I did not like to be reminded of my pre-Ghost accent, the slight Oklahoma drawl that was one-third southern, one third western, the last third some kind of corrupted surfer cadence that stemmed from my slow metabolism and generally mellow vibe.

  ‘We moved here from Tulsa.’

  ‘For jobs?’ She was going carefully, her shoulders tense.

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Are you an actor?’

  ‘Close. I was a double.’

  ‘I’m not familiar with the movie business. Is that like a stuntman?’

  ‘More like a stand-in.’

  She cracked a thin smile. ‘You mean like for butt shots?’

  ‘Nah. I used to look like someone famous. He paid me to do appearances, security precautions. I was a wooden duck to fool the public.’

  ‘You do look a little familiar,’ she said, searching my face. I waited, hoping she wouldn’t get it. She shook her head, smiling at my embarrassment. ‘Come on. You have to tell me now.’

  Oh, what the hell. ‘You listen to rap? Hip-hop?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. I didn’t either. But you know who Ghost is, right?’

  Annette blinked and swallowed hard. I could see it click, and I wished I’d just told her I was another aspiring actor.

  ‘You mean the serial killer guy?’

  Here we go. ‘He’s not actually a serial killer. He just raps about serial killing people.’

  ‘Wow. You really work for him?’

  ‘Used to.’

  She stared, trying to see Ghost in me.

  ‘You have to picture me with a blond Caesar cut and a tracksuit,’ I prompted.

  ‘One of my boyfriends used to listen to his music. Is all that stuff true about him and his wife?’

  ‘Show business,’ I said. ‘He never beat her.’ I didn’t know this, actually, but I doubted he really had. ‘He loved Drea-Jenna. Tragically.’

  ‘He’s kind of scary. Weren’t you afraid?’

  She obviously wasn’t getting this. ‘Okay, let’s say you have a stage.
You want to do a disappearing act, like David Copperfield. Live audience. Ghost is rapping, doing a skit. The bad guys come on stage and pretend to take him hostage, tie him up, gag him. Right?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Suddenly there’s a trapdoor in the floor, Ghost falls through the hole. The bad guys are surprised, how’d he get away? A loud boom. Gunshots, bombs, smoke. The bad dudes look up - here comes Ghost, dressed like Jason from Friday the 13th, swinging machetes in each hand as he glides down from the ceiling.’

  ‘This is a movie?’ Annette said.

  ‘No, live performance. It’s all choreographed.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But here’s Ghost, fake heads rolling across the stage, fountains of blood. How did he get there? Where’d he come from?’

  ‘After he fell through the floor,’ she said.

  ‘Exactly. But less than five seconds later, he’s back, in another costume, unleashing hell.’

  ‘There were two of you.’

  ‘You got it,’ I said.

  Annette smiled weakly. ‘I’m sure it was quite an experience.’

  ‘It was, at first. But then it got old, the need to shock. Very tiring. There was always a controversy, outraged parents and censorship groups. It was all very overblown. People are so . . .’

  I was talking too much. She seemed disinterested.

  ‘Like I said, that’s over now.’

  Annette seemed to sense it was time to change the subject. ‘Do you know anything about plumbing?’

  ‘Not really. Why?’

  ‘My hot water isn’t working.’

  I got up and went to the sink. I ran the hot water for a minute. It stayed cold.

  ‘Your water works,’ I said. Obviously. ‘Did you have the heat switched over in your name?’

  ‘I called them. It was working yesterday.’

  ‘Your pilot light is probably out,’ I said. ‘Do you know where the hot water tank is?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Probably outside the house. Mine is. Want me to check?’

  ‘No, that’s okay. I’ll find it later.’ Her hair was limp and she looked waxen.

  ‘Have you been taking cold showers?’ I said.

  ‘I’ve been working here around the clock. I don’t sleep much.’

  ‘You can use mine.’

  Even before she blushed I realized how wrong that sounded. And how unwise all of this chit-chat was. Bad enough we were even speaking, now she thought I was hitting on her.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘That’s very nice of you. I just don’t want to impose.’

  I set my beer down. ‘This was a mistake,’ I said, walking toward the door. ‘I’m sorry but I need to leave now.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ She moved quickly around the table. ‘I won’t bother you. I just wanted to say I’m available if you need . . .’

  I crossed the room and we met at a point and she stopped when I stopped and now we were blocking each other’s path to the open door. Up close I noticed the fine lines around her eyes, the dusky crescents under them. I couldn’t think of anything to get me out of the way.

  I turned toward the door.

  ‘Tell me,’ Annette said.

  ‘Can’t bring her back,’ I said softly.

  She didn’t respond and probably didn’t hear me. Outside, a squirrel stood up on his hind legs and blinked, then darted across the street in jerky steps before leaping onto the grey folds of a banyan tree and spiraling out of sight.

  I turned around and my hands went to the sides of her face. She was terrified, her green eyes very wide, but she did not resist. I kissed her and she pushed her tongue into my mouth. I hadn’t kissed a woman in more than a year, not even Lucy, whom I had always approached with my head turned away in shame. Annette left her arms hanging by her sides but I could feel the need rising up in her. I bit her lip and she breathed harder. I kissed down her neck and shoulder and I could have crushed her. I tasted her tongue and she placed her hands on my chest without pushing me away. Her hands moved down, over my stomach, to my crotch, and I felt something in me threatening to spin off like a hubcap on the freeway.

  I backed away panting. I backed into the doorway. She removed her t-shirt and her breasts barely moved. She had lots of freckles and her nipples were wide and smooth, almost featureless, the same cocoa shade of her lips. She backed deeper into the house, standing on the balls of her feet, swaying, ready to flee.

  I shut the door behind me. I came at her and she made as if to run and then stopped, letting me collide with her. She grabbed my head and let me kiss her and I did so, rougher, in a hurry now. She ground her hips into me and then bent away to unfasten my jeans. I reached under her cut-offs where she wasn’t wearing anything and found her with my fingers. She was trimmed short, roughly, and wet to her thighs. There was nowhere to go. She didn’t own a couch. She turned her back to me and began walking, dragging me behind her. She fell forward on the table, pushing her ass up. I held her hips up and slipped inside her. She gripped the sides of the table and moaned as I fucked her. ‘Like that,’ she said. ‘Just like that, James.’ We heaved against the table, scraping the legs across the floor, through the vacant space where Stacey had cut the flowers. Annette gasped and I came inside her. I locked against her and she reached back to ball my shirt up in her fist, keeping me there, pushing and pulling me. She was loud, her hair spilled across the table, moving her hips up and down until she came in withering contractions that pushed me out.

  I fell away from her, fumbling my pants and plopped into one of the chairs. I held onto the table to keep from sliding to the floor and hung my head, out of breath. She pulled her shorts up, staggered away slowly and leaned against the wall. Her neck and face were blotchy, Rorschach patches of pink forming over her brown freckles. Her knees bent and she slid down to the floor, looking up at me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘I said anything.’

  I shook my head. This was wrong in at least five different ways. Either that, or it was exactly right. My tribal right. And maybe hers, too.

  ‘I might need to take you up on that shower now,’ she said.

  The water ran audibly through the pipes in the walls. I went to the master bedroom, flicked a light on and changed into a fresh white t-shirt and a pair of jeans I hadn’t worn in a year. I walked around the ballroom, to the smaller bathroom. I brushed my teeth, washed my face and tried to clear my eyes with little geysers of Visine. The left one looked like something had burst, spilling red ink in the corner that was supposed to be white. Lay off the booze, James.

  Carrying a glass of water, I padded along the hall, wondering what the hell we were going to do now. I felt a strange elation. She lived next door, we could do this anytime. What if we were a perfect match? What if that miserable bitch called fate brought us to this point and we were meant to be each other’s salvation? Other than Lucy Goosey, Annette was the first woman I had been intimate with, and to be honest, the two experiences were so different there was no way to compare them. One was a lighting bug, the other was light itself.

  Lucy. A pang of guilt - I was supposed to have dinner with her last weekend. Not cool, James. I would call her tomorrow and apologize, but not reschedule. But if having Annette here felt like I was on the precipice of something, so too did it already feel like a betrayal. I forgot to make waffles for Stacey’s anniversary. I had done nothing in the way of commemoration. I had done the opposite, losing more of her in the arms of another woman. As I passed the ballroom doors, the sound of creaking hinges danced up my back and flicked at my ears.

  I stopped. I turned around.

  The left door had opened inward, as if inviting me. I was certain both had been closed when I passed them only minutes ago. Now there was a gap just wide enough for a body to pass through, a column of blackness between the white doors. Around the corner, the shower water hummed. I sipped more water, staring at the open door. Old house, flo
ors that weren’t so level. The tectonic plates under California, always shifting by tiny degrees. Maybe a draft. Except I knew those were excuses. I hadn’t felt any tremors and there were no drafts up here. The ballroom was a sealed, windowless vault within the house.

  I went toward it with every intention of kicking the doors wide open and flipping the lights on. I would give the room one last inspection just to be sure. But as I approached the open shaft my heart rate increased and I could feel the thing inside the ballroom sweeping across the floor to greet me, her pale white hand ready to dart forth and take my wrist as I gripped the knob—