by Edward Flora
Or was Peter the moth? An unwanted guest being swatted at.
TWENTY-NINE
Week four
“BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP…”
The alarm sounded, performing its duty to remind the tenants of 108 Parkridge Way a new week had begun. Despite things being shaky for the Shelly’s, they always pushed forward. Now they had a new responsibility which required them to stay on course. A reminder as to why they moved in the first place. This baby they were expecting…an addition to the family. This new person would be directly affected by their ability to stay focused on this fresh start. It wasn’t the time to fold up and cower away from what they intended on reaching for.
Dani drove off towards work to shape the young minds of the future. The current lesson in literature she had assigned to her sixth-graders was Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea”. A clear-cut classic in young adult literature. The class full of pre-teens would likely not grasp the depth of the book’s call to perseverance until they were older, however. They certainly wouldn’t wrap their heads around adversity until they’ve experienced it themselves. However, to plant the seeds of resilience early was invaluable to a young mind. They were also unaware of the fact that their teacher knew this all too well herself.
Dani stood in front of her classroom full of eager students. With her hair straightened and not a single strand out of place, there was no indication of the worry behind her tired eyes.
Peter left home also on his own mission and proceeded on his jog. He was not about to let his fears stop him from setting out what he needed to do. He had a book to complete which required a level of determination and unmatched commitment. The kind of commitment needed to bring a child into the world.
His heart fluttered in his chest at the idea of being a father, giving him more motivation than anything ever could. He was going to be best father he could be.
His run took him into town again. It had been a while since visiting Tony at the bookstore. He was also satisfied with the recent progress he made with his own writing that a little extracurricular reading would do him some good. This was something he had abandoned amidst the few minor glitches in his routine and a mild guilt nagged him as a result.
As he walked up the block, passing by the coffee shop, Peter stopped in front of the bar and took out his cell phone. He began scrolling through his contacts until he reached the letter “J”.
Initially, Peter opposed the idea of calling his old friend, Jeremy. In fact, he hadn’t put much thought into it since Dani sparked the concept. Yet here he was, phone in hand, looking down at an old name from his past.
Jeremy Watts.
Right there, displayed on the screen on Peter’s smart phone. Incredible how simple it was to contact someone who seemed so far removed from your life, yet fully accessible at your fingertips.
It had been years since they last spoke. A shame, really. They used to be inseparable. Meeting in the same fashion he and Dani had, in college. They worked together on campus, took classes together, ate lunch together. Shit, they spent every single day together for over three years. Peter spent more time with Jeremy than he had with his own thoughts. That’s why they knew each other so well.
As graduation approached, they began to grow distant. There was no real reason why. They just drifted apart until one day, communication ceased totally.
Peter hit the green button on his phone. It rang…He wondered if his old friend even still had his number saved in his contacts. Perhaps Jeremy’s phone would light up with a ten-digit number and no name attached to it.
The phone continued to ring until going to the automated voicemail message.
“You have reached the voice mailbox of…”
Peter hung up. He at least expected to hear an unfamiliar version of a voice which was once very common. Instead, he was intercepted by some strange, robotic voice. For all he knew, this was an indication that his friend truly was gone.
Peter stared down at his phone…He had done his part by taking the step to initiate contact. Without a plan even. He figured it would just unfold. Regardless, it was probably better off. No need for any of that awkward catching up or empty apologies. It they were meant to reunite, it would have happened before.
Peter returned the phone back into his pocket. The dimly lit bar sign loomed above.
“Of course.” He let out a long-winded sigh.
Peter pushed open the heavy wooden door, letting himself into the bar. It was exactly how he had left it before; empty. Except for the intimidating bartender, whose name he hadn’t caught the last time. Still, he greeted Peter with a subtle nod from behind the bar. His other nameless friend held his post at one end of the bar, a half-consumed pint of beer cradled in one hand on the countertop.
Peter took his place again at the opposite end of the bar. The old tv was set to a news station, rattling off the latest sweeping news story.
“Water?” the bartender’s voice boomed.
Peter hesitated for a moment, eyeing the modestly stocked bar before responding.
“Maker’s Mark, neat,” he concluded.
The bartender retrieved the dusty bottle from the top shelf. Giving Peter a curious look, he poured some whiskey into a glass and placed it in front of Peter. The soft buzz of the tv set the only sound in the room.
The woody, chemical smell struck Peter’s nostrils. It hypnotized him. Years of progress unraveled in an instant as the comforting aroma tickled his senses.
“Don’t drink that shit,” Peter’s friend from across the bar announced in his raspy, beer-soaked voice.
“Why not?”
“Haven’t you seen the news?” The man stood up from his end of the bar and approached Peter. Pulling up a barstool right next to him, the man made himself comfortable despite Peter preferring the distance of the bar between them. “That company is bad news. They’re poisoning people!”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
“You say that now, kid,” the man continued, rubbing his grizzled chin. “Their distillery in Kentucky shut down last month because things were getting so bad. Some kind of contamination, they’re saying. You drink that shit, it eats the lining of your stomach…there are some cases that were so bad that people were becoming hysterical. They’re not even themselves anymore. One of the plant workers killed his entire family, I’m guessing, because the pain drove him mad.”
The bartender simply leaned against the counter, bracing himself for another conspiracy rant. Judging from his body language, this wasn’t the first time his most loyal patron went off on a tangent like this.
“Well, is there proof, or are people just jumping to conclusions?” Peter engaged the conversation for a moment. His glass of Maker’s Mark remained untouched. Perhaps the ramblings of the old man had some merit.
“Proof? You want proof?” he began, getting riled-up. “LOOK!” He waved his glass of beer in the direction of the tv, spilling a few unfortunate drops onto the counter. “Their investigating the damn place, but they’re NEVER going to tell you the truth! It’s a GODDAMN COVERUP! The government contaminated that plant. Everyone sure as shit knows it. They’re trying to weed out degenerates like you and me. Bastards who sit in bars on weekday afternoons. Yeah, us. They want us exterminated. But they won’t get me.” He coughed a wet, hoppy cough. “This goddamn planet is too overpopulated and so what’s the solution? Less people means more control for those in control.”
The door being pushed open broke the man’s rant. The son from the coffee shop across the street walked in and took a seat at the third table facing the wall. Like clockwork, the bartender came out from behind the bar with a glass of whiskey. A different one from what Peter had ordered. Jameson, Irish whiskey.
Peter continued to stall with his own drink. He moved the glass back and forth, swirling the amber liquid. It felt taboo.
“He’s got the right idea,” the man went on. “If you’re gonna drink that shit, it may as well be something that won’t make you nuts!”
“What about what you’ve got?” the bartender said, breaking his silence in the conversation. He pointed at the pint of beer. “You mean to tell me whiskey drinkers are the only degenerates? What makes you so sure that they’re not poisoning your beer?”
Clearly annoyed by the comment, the man slowly took a sip from his pint and placed the glass back down onto the counter. Peter thought a rage-filled outburst was inevitable at this point.
“If alcohol kills me, so be it, I’ve been dying for a long time.”
“That’s a little hypocritical.” Peter sat there quietly as the bartender pushed harder. “I think it’s unfair to judge others on their vices when you clearly have some of your own.”
The man responded with an extended swig of his beer and a grunt.
Peter studied his own glass. Take the drink. No, I shouldn’t. You’ve earned it. But I’ve made so much progress. That progress deserves a sip. No, I can’t. Do it. I had better get going, I have work to do. You’ve accomplished so much, what’s one sip?
Peter figured it would only be a matter of time before the disgruntled patron started in again. His own poison sat there, ever so enticing. He took a deep breath in his nose and out his mouth.
You’re fine. You’re just relaxing. A good drink always helps take the edge off. This was true. Just imagine all that stress melting away.
Peter reached towards the glass containing his reward for making his dreams come true. A finished book…a baby on the way. He deserved something special.
Handling the glass with care, he brought it up to his lips.
It had been waiting patiently for his attention. The amber liquid flowed passed his lips and down his throat for the first time in an eternity.
The alcohol burning at his esophagus screamed out his mistake so loud that he was afraid the others in the room heard it as well. But it was in his mind. The rest of the room was silent except for the now slightly turned down tv set.
The room became a blur. Surely, that sip didn’t intoxicate him, but something far worse had happened. He had given in to the little voice in his head. It was the same voice that told him he was never good enough. He gritted his teeth. What qualified the voice now to give him advice after years of pushing him down?
The glass dropped back onto the counter, spilling the remaining whiskey onto the wood surface. Peter bolted towards the exit. Towards the refreshing Fall air and away from that toxic voice. Only there was no escaping what was inside him.
He reached a hand forward to push open the heavy wooden door. Except the hand reaching out was not his. Where his hand should have been was a wrinkled and boney hand. One that looked too weak to push such a door open. Except, he felt the weight of the door on the hand as if it were his own.
The chill hit Peter’s face. The burn of the whiskey inside his stomach now. He held both hands up in front of his face. Wide-eyed, confusion fell over him. He found his own hands. No wrinkles no boney fingers. Placing both palms on his knees, he bent over, trying to collect himself.
Huff, ffuu…I shouldn’t have gone in there.
“You’re fine, you’re just imagining it.” Peter told himself.
Just remember what Dr. Urbridge said.
He took a long-winded breath.
You’ve got to fight against these things.
Peter proceeded towards his safe haven at the bookshop.
“Peter, it’s been a while. I thought you forgot about me!” Tony greeted his friend. Even with the booze still burning in his belly, a sense of ease fell upon Peter.
“Hey, Tony. We’ve had a lot going on back home. Got some news…Dani’s pregnant.”
“You know what, I had a feeling I’d see you again with something incredible to say.” Tony’s joy almost made Peter feel like he wasn’t excited enough himself. Tony’s leathery skin creased into a smile almost too large for his face to contain. He quickly came from behind the counter to join Peter.
Peter could never put his finger on it, but among everything in Piermont, the one place that never failed to remind him of Brooklyn was Tony’s bookshop. This was even more apparent in Tony’s massive hug, celebrating the news of his friend’s addition to the family. And they were friends. This feeling did not derive from the shop itself, but from Tony’s warm welcome. Peter reciprocated the hug. There was something very familiar in it, something that reminded him of home.
“I’m very happy for you and Dani. Send her my regards.”
“Thanks, Tony. I appreciate it. She’ll be happy to know that.”
The weight of guilt had melted from Peter’s subconscious. He hadn’t been to the shop since taking the key from the cabinet on the second floor. He had been afraid Tony knew about it and would be angry with him. Or worse yet, he would be confronted about it. Peter didn’t want to have to explain his actions.
All that worry seemed to be for nothing. As soon as Tony saw Peter, he welcomed him back to the shop like they’ve been friends for years.
“I have something for you.” Tony reached behind the counter. “Since you’ve taken a great interest in Leida’s life, I dug up a couple of books that she was fascinated with. Perhaps you’d find some interest in them as well.”
“Wow, this is great!” Peter gushed.
“They’re upstairs,” Tony motioned. “I left them on the chair…well, your chair. I didn’t want to forget to give them to you.”
Peter walked up the narrow flight of stairs lined with old paperbacks stacked in between each banister space. He found the two books sitting there on the old wooden rocking chair, which now, according to Tony, belonged to him. Two thick books stacked on one another. The top book stared Peter down. The bright green lettering of the title against the dark pastel cover screamed out at him like a banshee.
“The Witches of Upstate New York”
Of course, he thought. Considering the statue and candles they found in the attic, it made sense this was the choice of reading material Leida dove into.
Peter found his place in the old, creaky rocker, placing the bottom book on the table next to the typewriter without even looking at it. He held The Witches of Upstate New York in one hand, cracking it open.
Time had gotten away from Peter. He didn’t realize that nearly three hours had just flown by without so much as a glance up as he hunched over the pages of the book cradled in his hands.
Bzz bzz bzz…
He jumped, looking around the room, ribcage thumping. His phone vibrating on the table next to him broke his concentration.
He briefly had a chance to catch his breath before looking over to see who was calling.
The touch screen of his phone flashed “Jeremy” and a rush of emotion befell him.
A distant yet familiar voice awaited on the other line, but Peter let it ring. He sat there still nestling the book, postponing contact. It wasn’t his intention to avoid his old friend. It was the shock…the reality of this contact being real, that stunned Peter into inaction.
Eventually, the buzzing of the phone ceased, and Peter turned back to the book. He was unsure how to absorb the contents of the story. A work of fiction that subtly, yet clearly pulled influence from reality. The premise was about a woman. A bit of a loner in the town she grew up in.
She never moved. Never married. Mostly kept to herself. She was, as much to Peter’s surprise, another writer. She obsessed over the occult and dark arts. Her neighbors, as a result, remained wary of her.
By the time Peter reached the book’s climax, the woman had kidnapped several children, gouging their eyes out. His hair had also become a knotted mess from running his nervous, sweaty hands through it. The sacrificial ritual she believed would be pleasing to some other worldly entity made Peter quiver. Each ritual ended with her victim’s being thrown into the lake. She would eventually be caught and sentenced to death by hanging.
This detail struck a nerve with Peter. He recalled his dream involving Dani talking about a woman hanging herself upstairs. He thought back to his misadven
ture in the woods, running into the woman hanging from a tree. Was this some sort of sick joke? Was this payback for stealing the key? Maybe Tony knew all along.
Peter decided he had enough for the day, slamming the book shut. He stood up and placed the book back where he had found it on the chair. Upon leaving the shop, Tony was once again nowhere to be found.
THIRTY
Peter and Dani slept as twilight fell upon their residence. The mild autumn air was comfortable enough for them to sleep with the window open. The night was so serene that even the soft breathing patterns from the couple could be heard in unison with the gentle breeze.
DING….DING….DINGGG…..
The grandfather clock roared to life, the sound of its bells reverberating throughout the entire house.
“Holy shit!” Peter leapt up.
“I thought you disabled that thing.” Dani stared down Peter in frustration.
“I did! It hasn’t gone off in weeks. I don’t understand this.” He let out a hesitant grunt and tossed the covers off his body.
“If this thing’s going to decide to have a mind of its own and wake us up whenever it feels like, I’m sorry, but it has to go.”
DING….DING….DINGGG…..
“Yeah,” Peter agreed as he got up from bed, starting towards the door. His initial feeling of discomfort was replaced by frustration. It had been weeks since he clipped the wires inside the clock. Damn thing might have a mind of its own after all. Not on this timeline though. He had a busy day ahead of him tomorrow and didn’t need this thorn in his side.