Dark Little Wonders and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  “Very many,” I tell him, taking some glasses from the sideboard. “I'm afraid all I can offer is water.”

  “And you're all alone here now?”

  “I do.”

  “And you don't go stir crazy?”

  I finish filling the two glasses, before taking them over and setting them on the counter.

  “I get by,” I tell him finally. “There are reminders of her, but I like that. I'm sure I'll move on eventually, but I've been far too busy to start looking for a new place.”

  “Sure, but...”

  His voice trails off.

  “I'm fine,” I continue, unable to hide a hint of irritation. “I don't see why it's such a big deal.”

  “Isn't it like living with a...”

  Again, he seems unable to complete a sentence.

  “After it happened,” he explains, “I had to get out of our place. It was like the emptiness was a constant reminder of what I'd lost. I went stir crazy there. One day, about a month after it all happened, I had to go back and take another look. Just those few minutes were enough to make me realize that I'd made the right decision. If I'd stayed put for the past year, I honestly think I'd be in a loony bin by now.”

  “Different people have different experiences,” I reply, starting to feel annoyed by his comments.

  “And you don't get spooked ever?”

  “Why the hell would I get spooked?”

  “Being here all alone.”

  I pause, before taking a sip of water. Somehow, these inane questions seem to have sobered me up, and I'm starting to regret inviting Jonas to come inside. I suppose I wanted to do something that Suzette would approve of, and in the back of my mind I was imagining her being glad that I've finally started to talk to people again. Even Suzette, however, would surely find this man to be both boorish and rude, and I'm certain she'd understand that I have to encourage his departure.

  “It's late,” I point out, “and I have to be up early.”

  “Oh yeah?” he replies. “Got work?”

  “As it happens, yes, I do.”

  He nods, and then it's clear that he suddenly realizes that I want him to leave.

  “Right,” he says, downing his glass of water before letting out a sudden burp. “Well, never let it be said that I outstay my welcome. I hope you enjoyed the whiskey, and perhaps we shall run into one another again.”

  “Perhaps we shall,” I reply, “although it's a big town, so one never really knows.”

  “I'll show myself out,” he adds, and then he hesitates for a moment before turning and heading to the hallway. Just as I think he's about to leave, however, he turns back to me. “I'm sorry if I trod on any toes.”

  “It's quite alright.”

  “Different strokes for different folks, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He looks around for a moment, almost as if he half expects to spot somebody else here in the apartment, and then he mutters something before heading to the door.

  Finally, once he's left and I can hear him heading down the stairs, I allow myself to relax in the silence of the kitchen. I'm quite surprised that I allowed myself to spend a few hours speaking to that Jonas guy, but the experience has simply left me more certain than ever that I'm better off alone. Other people can be so melodramatic and over-emotional, whereas I prefer to keep things calm and ordered.

  Different strokes for different folks indeed.

  VI

  Opening my eyes suddenly, I stare up at the bedroom's dark ceiling. And then, just as I'm trying to remember what woke me, I hear the sound again.

  Shuffling footsteps in the hallway.

  Sitting up in the dark, I listen as the footsteps continue. It sounds for all the world as if somebody is right outside the bedroom door, even though I know such a thing is impossible. The shuffling sound must be something else, something that I'm misinterpreting in my half-awake state, but the sound continues for several more seconds before finally coming to a rest.

  I wait.

  Silence.

  Whatever it was, it's gone now.

  My first instinct is to go and take a look in the hallway, but at the same time I'm worried about encouraging my subconscious mind to pull more stunts. I've worked very hard over the past year to ignore little creaks and bumps in the middle of the night, and one way I've done that has been by refusing to go running around trying to chase down the source of every noise.

  Staring at the door, I watch the line of light at the bottom.

  A moment later, the footsteps return, and I decide to stick to a simple rule. If I see anything moving on the other side of the door, I'll have to go and investigate. But if I see nothing, and if all that happens is that the footsteps continue, then I shall stay right here in the bedroom.

  The steps seem to move closer to the door, but again there's no sign of anybody on the other side.

  And then the steps fall silent again.

  I could call out, but then I'd once again be feeding into my own idiotic fear. The last thing I need is to let those fears come tumbling out, because they would surely get worse and worse. Eventually I'd end up hallucinating, and I might even lose my mind.

  I have to stay strong.

  And sure enough, as I sit in the bed, I hear no more footsteps. It's as if my mind briefly conjured up some kind of horror, only for my strength of character to push the imagined presence away. I wait a few more minutes, and then I gently settle back down in the bed.

  I shall not give in to paranoia.

  I shall not let my resolve weaken.

  Finally, closing my eyes, I determine that I shall go to sleep.

  Suddenly the phone starts ringing.

  I sit up again, shocked by the sound. I can't imagine who would be trying to call in the middle of the night, but with a sigh I clamber out of bed and head over to the door. Once I'm out in the corridor, I stop for a moment and look down at the ringing phone. I'm tempted not to answer, but at the same time I feel that not answering would be a kind of weakness. I hesitate, therefore, before lifting the receiver from the cradle and holding it to the side of my face.

  “Yes?” I bark. “Who is it?”

  I wait, but all I hear is sobbing.

  “Who is this?” I ask. “What do you want?”

  Again I wait, but again the only sound is a persistent whimper.

  “Whatever you want,” I continue, “I don't want you to call this number again. I'm not in the mood for foolish pranks.”

  I start to put the phone down.

  “Why did you leave me?” Suzzette's voice whispers suddenly.

  I freeze, still holding the receiver.

  “Why did you leave me, Nick?” she sobs. “Why did you have to leave me?”

  VII

  I might not know much French but, as I stand outside the town hall in a patch of bright morning sunshine, I know enough to understand what the sign on the board says:

  Meeting for family and friends

  Support group for the bereaved

  All welcome

  I don't know how many Monday mornings I've come down here and almost gone inside. Every Monday, I think, since I first realized that such a place existed. Sometimes I even manage to persuade myself that I might go in and join the group, at least to listen to some of the other people. Deep down, however, I think I know that I'm never going to walk through that door. I'm sure these groups are useful for other people, but I don't need to talk to a bunch of strangers about how I feel.

  Suzette would want me to go, of course.

  Suzette would want me to open up.

  Then again, Suzette would also be the first person to tell me I need to get over what happened last night. That bizarre phone call was clearly a prank perpetrated by somebody with a sick sense of humor. The idiot might have hung up after saying just a few sentence, but I'm sure they were highly amused by the thought that they got a reaction out of me. I got no more sleep last night, and it wasn't until sunrise that I fully accepted tha
t the caller was simply a copycat who managed to fake my dead wife's voice.

  I refuse to be the butt of somebody's joke.

  “Are you going to the meeting?” a woman's voice says suddenly.

  Turning, I find that a smartly dressed young woman has stopped next to me. She looks a little timid, but also friendly, as if she's perhaps hoping to make a friend before she goes into the building.

  “Sorry,” she continues, “I didn't mean to disturb you. It's my first time too. I thought that maybe after the anniversary, it was time to speak to some people about the night my mother died. It's just...”

  Her voice trails off for a moment.

  “Now that I'm here,” she adds finally, “I'm starting to have second thoughts. Have you been before, or is this your first time?”

  “My first time,” I reply. “I mean, it would be if I... Well, I don't know whether I'm going to go in.”

  She nods. “I know the feeling.”

  Turning, I watch as a few people head to the door. I recognize some of them from previous weeks when I've loitered here, and some of them have been coming for months. I haven't seen any noticeable changes in their faces, however, so it's difficult to know whether they've really gained anything from attending these stupid meetings.

  “Oh, I feel so stupid,” the woman says suddenly, wiping tears from her eyes. “I've come all this way, right? I should at least go in and try it once. If I don't like it, I can always leave.”

  “I'm sure you can,” I mutter.

  “So are you going inside?”

  I hesitate for a moment, before shaking my head.

  “Oh,” she says, and she seems a little disappointed. “Do you think I'll be the only first-timer today, then? I guess I'm kind of worried that if I'm the only newbie, they'll all want me to stand up and talk. I don't know if I'm ready for that. I just want to listen to what the others say.”

  “I'm sure that if you tell them that,” I reply, “they'll understand.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “There's no reason to be scared,” I continue, hoping to persuade her so that she'll leave me alone. “I've seen movies where people go to these support groups. No-one's going to force you to speak.”

  “I'm not ready to speak.”

  “Then don't.”

  “I just worry that they'll all be looking at me,” she continues. “Like, even if they say I don't have to talk, I'll feel them watching me, like their eyes are burning into my soul.”

  “I think maybe,” I say with a sigh, “you're over-thinking this a little.”

  “Really? In what way?”

  “Listen,” I continue, “just do whatever you want, okay? Go or don't go, but I can't help you.”

  “But -”

  “I'm sorry,” I add, before turning and walking away. I know I should have been more patient with the girl, but her constant indecision was starting to annoy me.

  By the time I get to the street corner, however, I'm already feeling that I should go back and apologize. When I look over my shoulder, I see that the girl is already making her way across the street, and I watch with a mixture of respect and surprise as she disappears into the door at the front of the town hall. I guess she plucked up the courage after all.

  Good for her. Obviously she needs support, whereas I'm fine as I am. The last thing I want is to talk to anyone about what happened to Suzette. I can handle my grief without anybody's help.

  VIII

  Wandering the streets, making my way through the crowds of tourists, I can't help but feel that I'm delaying the moment when I return to the apartment. To be honest, I spend most of my days ambling through town now, and I usually only return home once darkness has come.

  Even then, I often linger near the main square until almost midnight.

  Perhaps Jonas had a point when he said that living in that apartment must be difficult. Still, I am managing quite well, and I feel certain that I'm getting stronger and stronger with each passing day.

  Stopping at the corner, I look across the square and see a group of girls near the fountain. They look so happy, laughing and giggling, and I can't help but feel relieved that they're not letting last year's horror get them down. I was worried all winter that when summer came around, people would stay away from the center of town. If anything, however, the place has been busier than ever. As I watch the girls taking photos of one another, I feel somewhat in awe of their resilience.

  And then I see him.

  Somebody else is watching the girls, and I feel a flicker of dread as I realize that I recognize his face. Not that it can possibly be him, of course, but the scruffy-looking man reminds me very much of the killer who shot twenty-three people dead last year. He's staring at the girls with a strangely blank expression, but then a moment later he steps out of view.

  It can't have been him.

  Still, I step out across the square, determined to be sure. Even if the man isn't the killer from last year – and he can't be, since that man was most certainly shot by the police – he reminded me very much of the perpetrator, and I can't help worrying that perhaps some copycat might want to cause another tragedy. After all, in the aftermath of the shooting last year, I saw online that there were people out there who actually celebrated the atrocity.

  Reaching the fountain, I see that the girls are still having fun.

  I look around, but there's no sign of the man. Heading to the other side of the fountain, I try to tell myself that I'm overreacting, but at the same time I can't shake the memory of his blank gaze.

  “Isn't this where those people got shot last year?” a woman asks, as she walks past the fountain.

  “That was horrible,” her friend replies. “Yeah, I think it was right over there where that restaurant is. I think they're having, like, a memorial service soon to mark the anniversary.”

  There are so many people here, it's barely possible to pick out any faces from the vast, constantly shifting crowd. After a moment, however, I spot the man again, and this time he's standing over on the farthest street corner, watching a group of girls as they sit drinking water outside a cafe.

  Taking care to keep my eyes fixed on the man, I step around the fountain and start walking across the square. I have no idea what I'm going to do when I reach him, of course, but I keep telling myself that I have a duty to determine whether or not this man represents a threat. There are several armed police officers patrolling the area, and I'm starting to think that I should warn them. First, however, I need to get a closer look so that I can check whether this man is truly up to no good.

  Just as I'm getting closer, however, he turns and stares straight at me.

  I stop, horrified by his gaze, and I swear I can see a flicker of pure hatred in his eyes.

  A moment later he steps out of sight, and I lose him in the crowd.

  “Wait!” I call out, hurrying after him. “Stop!”

  Realizing that I have no idea where he went, I look around and finally spot two armed officers walking past the fountain. I wave at them, but they don't see me so I start hurrying over. A moment later I spot another armed officer a little closer. I wave at him, and he immediately starts coming toward me.

  “I might be wrong,” I tell him, barely able to get the words out, “but I just saw a man acting suspiciously over on that corner.”

  I point at the spot where I last saw the man, although of course there's no sign of him now.

  “When you say suspiciously,” the officer replies with a thick French accent, “what do you mean?”

  “He was watching people,” I stammer, fully aware that I must sound like an absolute madman. “He seemed to be watching those girls, and he looked angry.”

  “And where is he now?”

  “He slipped away.”

  “Did he have anything suspicious with him? A weapon, or a backpack?”

  “I didn't notice.”

  Turning back to the officer, I can already see that he's not convinced.

 
; “He looked like the man who carried out the attack last year. What was his name again?”

  “Sir,” the officer replies, “what exactly is it about this man that made you suspicious? There are a lot of people here, and it's not so unusual for a man to want to stop and look at some pretty ladies.”

  “It wasn't like that,” I tell him. “This man isn't right in the head. I could see it in his eyes!”

  “You could, could you?” He sighs. “Thank you for remaining vigilant, and please don't hesitate to report anything else that seems suspicious. But there's nothing I can do if you can't point at the man for me. There are thousands of people in this square at any moment.”

  “But I saw him,” I whisper, watching the crowd for a moment before realizing that there's no way I can back up anything I've said.

  “Have a nice day,” the officer replies, before turning and walking away.

  “I saw him,” I say again, but I know it's too late.

  Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I just jumped to a conclusion, and maybe the man was simply enjoying watching some girls on a sunny day. Still, I remember the look in his eyes, and something about the man's expression has left me feeling worried.

  Setting off through the crowd, I try to find him again.

  IX

  “Patrice Flambeau,” I whisper as I check one of the many old newspapers that I've kept in the apartment. “Thirty-four years old.”

  Looking at the photo of the man who opened fire at the restaurant last year – the man who killed my wife as well as twenty-two other people – I can't help thinking that it's the exact same man who I saw in the square today. At the same time, the news report makes it perfectly clear that this Flambeau man was shot dead by police, so I know it can't have been him.

  At most, it was someone who looked a lot like him. A brother, perhaps, or simply somebody with the same build and the same hatred burning in his soul.

  Still, as I continue to read the article, I can't help noticing some disturbing passages. For one thing, this Patrice Flambeau character is said to have been spotted several times in the area around the restaurant, in the days and weeks leading up to the attack. The police apparently believe that he was staking out the area, and several witnesses reported that they'd spotted Flambeau watching them.