YOUR NUMBER
J. Joseph Wright
Text copyright 2012 by J. Joseph Wright
Cover copyright 2012 by Krystle Wright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental (and would be quite frightening, to say the least).
I want the world to read YOUR NUMBER. If you’d like to share it with your friends, feel free. Just don’t make a material gain off of it, because that would constitute copyright infringement. Thank you, J.
1.
Glass. Glass everywhere. The balcony floor, glass. The safety rail, glass. She thought quite possibly the night sky was made of glass. And, littering the place like sparkling gems, was A-list celebrity after A-list celebrity. Jennifer Lopez, giggling with Steven Tyler. Tom Cruise, chatting Steven Spielberg’s ear off. Kim Kardashian, with her sister Kourtney, feasting on caviar and sea bass while swaying seductively to a dance remix of Lights. Sunset Tower Hotel had been invaded by Hollywood’s crème de la crème. Despite her recent successes, Kate still felt a little out of place.
“Don’t do it!” a voice rose over the pounding bass. “Don’t jump, Kate! I can’t lose my twin sister!”
Kate felt her face go red. She gave Eva a stiff lip, trying to say, ‘shut the hell up,’ without actually saying it. People were watching. Eva just smiled and shook her head. She had a full glass of champagne in each hand.
“Here,” she gave one to Kate. “I was gonna drink both, but it looks like you need this more than me,” she took a particularly undignified guzzle, then burped. What a lady. “What’re you doing way up here?” she squinted. “Hey, you’re not upset, are you?”
Kate glanced at the celebrity fete below her feet. “About what?”
“You know,” Eva forced Kate to look at her. Except for the different length hair, they were a perfect match, a mirror reflection. “About not winning. Because you shouldn’t be upset or jealous or anything. Like they say, it’s an honor to be…”
“To be nominated. Yeah, yeah. I know.”
“So you are pissed!”
“I am not,” Kate sighed. “I’m just…tired,” she looked past her sister at the small gatherings on the veranda. It was quieter up there, and darker. Several groups sat in cozy, private settings, created by a series of hanging tapestries. She saw shadows and heard voices, but didn’t see many faces. “Where’s Charlie? You seen him?”
“Charlie?” Eva downed the rest of her bubbly in one gulp. “He’s showing off his Oscar to anyone who wants to see it. I mean, tacky,” she rolled her eyes.
“Now who’s jealous?”
“Oh, bull,” Eva dug into her handbag and fished out her phone. “Hey, listen. I’m gonna get outta here…you gonna be okay with Charlie?”
“Yeah. He’ll probably crash at my place tonight,” Kate saw something in her sister’s eyes. “Don’t give me that look. We’re just friends.”
Eva winked. “With benefits?”
Kate motioned a big, exaggerated slap. Eva slinked away.
“Night, night!” Eva tiptoed downstairs. The second she glided out of sight, Kate lost her breath and jumped at the sudden and disorienting sensation of being twirled around.
“I thought she’d never leave,” Charlie had her by the hips. He kissed her quickly and raised his Oscar above his head. “Can you believe I won!”
“Of course you won,” she assured him. “Your performance was a classic. You deserve it.”
His expression straightened and he skewed his head. “Oh, Katie, you’ll win one,” he kissed her cheek. “You’ll win more than one,” he backed away, beckoning her to the labyrinth of silky canvases, candlelight casting him in silhouette. “Come on…some people want to meet you.”
He led her to the outermost corner of the patio, where the music became nothing more than thumping in her ears. Sitting at a large table, in the dimness, she recognized each and every person, all superstars. Angelle, the pop sensation, with her boyfriend, Bradley Davis, a Pro Bowl quarterback. Big-time actors Dean Bow, Elena Lake and Simone Bardot—it looked like the cover of US magazine.
“Everyone, this is Kate,” Charlie said. “Kate, everyone.”
“Welcome to our cloistered little Oscar party,” Dean gestured toward the transparent tabletop. “Have some. On me.”
Kate recoiled from the white powder, sifted and fashioned expertly into long lines.
“No, thanks,” she waved her hand, then observed at Charlie. He put his Best Supporting Actor Award down and picked up a straw.
“What the hell,” he vacuumed half a line up one nostril, then finished it up with the other. “It’s a celebration, am I right!”
“Right!” Dean stood and gave Charlie a high-five, which evolved into a hug. When they separated, Dean sat down, out of breath. “That’s great, Charlie. Just great. Winning an Oscar this early in your career is amazing. I’m happy for you,” he looked at Kate. “And you, Kate. It’s true about being nominated. People’re talking about you already. It’s nothing but good for your career, nothing but good. Except…”
“Except what?” Kate asked.
All of the sudden, Dean’s face got serious. It made Kate nervous. He didn’t seem inclined to answer, so Angelle did for him.
“You go by your real name, don’t you?” she asked Kate, then turned to Charlie. “And so do you. You guys both go by your birth names?”
“Well, yeah,” Charlie shrugged. “I always liked my name.”
“Me too,” Kate was confused. “So does my sister. What’s this have to do with anything?”
Dean and Angelle exchanged glances. The others shifted in their seats.
“Do you know your number?” Dean leaned over a candle, his features distorted by the conflicting shadow and light.
Kate eyed Charlie. He looked mystified. She said, “My phone number? Yeah, I guess.”
Everyone at the table cracked up at her, everyone except Charlie. Dean was especially gleeful, but that changed as he set down his champagne.
“I mean your death number.”
Kate squinted at him, then at Angelle. They both had poker faces. It was Kate’s turn to giggle. “You guys’re kidding, right?”
Angelle cleared her throat and seized Kate’s attention. “Everyone, when they’re born, is fated a number. It could be one, or it could be one hundred billion. Whatever the number, it signifies how many times your name can be said aloud. Once that number is up, once your name has been said that many times, you die.”
“What?” Kate said. “You can’t be serious.”
“Listen,” Angelle sounded urgent. “This is real,” she looked at Charlie. Suddenly quiet, he turned away. “This affects famous people the most. Since we’re in the spotlight, a lot of people out there say our names every day.”
“And the more famous you get, the more people say your name,” Elena lowered her dark glasses. “It adds up fast.”
Angelle added, “It’s a dangerous game to use your real name in this business.”
“That’s why so many of us use pseudonyms,” Dean nodded. “It’s not because the name sounds better…it’s because of the death number.”
Charlie shook his head, an earnest and vehement denial. “This is crazy,” his voice went up several decibels. “You guys’re trying to scare us.”
Angelle sighed. “I wish we were kidding, but we’re not. The death number has taken so many celebrities who made the mistake of using their real names. Too many recently.”
“Amy Winehouse,” said Eli.
“What?” Kate wouldn’t believe it. “I thought she died of alcohol poisoning.”
“Th
at’s what it was made to look like,” Dean said. “That’s what happens. It’s made to look like an accident or an overdose or a suicide, even diseases like cancer…but it’s not. It’s the death number.”
“There’ve been so many of them,” Angelle said. “From James Dean to John Belushi to Chris Farley—”
“Michael Jackson,” Elena concealed her eyes with her glasses again.
“Michael Jackson?” Kate was even more skeptical. “No way!”
“How do you know this,” Charlie asked. Kate couldn’t believe he believed. “How do you know it was this…death number that killed them?”
Angelle and Dean both turned to each other silently. Dean nodded. Angelle said, “There are…signs.”
“What signs?” Charlie sounded nervous.
“Before your number is up, you start to see things, strange things,” Dean lit a cigarette.
“Crazy things,” Angelle’s eyes got wide. “Demons and goblins and-and a symbol.”
Charlie kept his mouth closed. With his eyes, he demanded more. Dean took a long drag from his Camel, leaned forward, and, using a credit card, began playing with the powdered cocaine. After a few swipes, he finished his design, two lines intersecting two other lines at oblique angles, a perfect:
#
Kate cocked her head. “That’s a Twitter hashtag, isn’t it?”
“It’s also the number symbol,” Dean said. “This symbol is found, in one way or another, at the scene whenever someone is killed by the death number.”
Kate stood and forced Charlie up with her. “I’ve had enough of this. Come on, Charlie. Take me home, okay?”
Angelle sprang to her feet. “We’re just trying to warn you. You and your sister are in danger,” she glanced at Charlie. “And so are you. You know it, don’t you?”
Charlie scratched his scalp, mussing his already purposefully unkempt hair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Angelle. But that isn’t your real name, is it?”
“No,” she said flatly. “Of course not. And you shouldn’t be using your real name, either.”
“It’s too late,” Charlie took Kate’s hand and led her to the stairs.
2.
Charlie stared at the limousine floor, listless, his Academy Award lying on the seat like a dead man. Kate wanted to hug him, he looked so sad. She knew, though, that when he got into a mood, the best thing was to leave him alone for a while. So she sat. And she sat, until she couldn’t handle it anymore.
“Charlie?” they sped along Sunset Boulevard toward La Brea Avenue. “Is something wrong? Was it something I said?”
His eyes closed slowly. “No, I…” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I guess I shouldn’t have done that coke.”
She moved the Oscar, it was heavy, and slid next to him. “I didn’t want to say anything. You okay?” she rubbed his neck.
He said nothing for a few miles, just sat watching the cars sweep past. Then, just when Kate thought he would never speak again, he opened up.
“I’ve seen the sign.”
Kate, at first, had no clue what he meant.
“What? What sign?”
“Remember what Dean and Angelle were saying? The number sign? The death number?”
Kate sat back and giggled. “You don’t believe that crap, do you? They were loaded. Probably got off on scaring us. Did you see the way they were acting? I mean, seriously? These guys are Academy Award winners? Please.”
She expected at least a little grin. Instead, he got gloomier. He clenched his jaw. Kate saw the muscles twitching in his cheek. It scared her into a straight face.
“Charlie? Knock it off, okay? You’re freaking me out.”
His stoic mood saturated the limo. Even the driver seemed depressed. Then, just like that, he flipped a switch. His grimness evaporated, and he flashed that trademark Charlie Monroe million-dollar smile. “You know what? You’re right. It’s nothin’,” he yawned and put his arm around her. The old yawn and squeeze. Nice one, she laughed.
“What’s so funny?” he squinted.
“Nothing.”
When they got to Kate’s tenth floor apartment in El Royale Tower, Charlie made the requisite play for her panties. Having been burned several times by guys who said they were, ‘friends,’ Kate wanted to take it slow and smart.
“No,” she said, plain and clear. “You’re drunk and high, and I don’t want to. Take the spare bedroom,” and he plodded, tail between his legs, down the hall.
After a cup of lemon tea, Kate slid out of her navy blue evening dress and into a pair of plush pajamas. Comfy and warm, she journeyed to the master bathroom for her nightly beauty ritual. Avocado and banana exfoliating scrub, tea tree hydrating oil, rinse and repeat. As she brushed her hair and contemplated getting it cut, a sharp, sudden noise shook her from her thoughts. For a calm moment, she figured it was the neighbors. Then she got mad at them for being so loud so late at night. Then she heard it again, this time louder, more abrupt. A muffled, desperate cry—from her own apartment.
“Charlie!” she bolted upstairs and ran the length of the hallway, now wishing she’d rented something not so hideously large. The bedroom door wouldn’t open. She leaned her ear and heard horrible things, sounds of struggle, stifled cries, malicious growls. She held her breath and backed away, but Charlie was in there. He needed help. She pushed and pushed on the door, then pounded so hard it made her shoulder ache. Finally, the lock gave way, the door swung open, and she lost her footing and stumbled inside.
She regained balance after three steps, then stopped cold, her heart beating a thousand miles an hour at the unnatural sight. It felt like a movie set, the characters so surreal. Charlie was pinned down, unable to move, by several dark gray creatures, one on each wrist, two on each ankle. They were small and stubbly, with enormous, curved beaks and jagged fangs protruding from their lower jaws. She didn’t have time to study the little things for long. Another, much larger being stole her focus. As tall as the ceiling, it had to bend to keep from hitting its head. She became awash in tremors.
The beast was cloaked in a veil of foreboding vapor, which it released with its breath, hot and steamy, vibrations in the air rippling like water. The only features she got a good sense of were its countless arms, or legs, elongated and spindly to the point of absurdity.
She got the feeling she’d caught the gangly being and its crew of little monsters in the middle of something. It stood over Charlie, with one of its pincher-like hands outstretched. Charlie tried to move his head, but the creatures made sure he couldn’t. There were more than she’d first estimated. Many more, and they not only clutched Charlie firmly, but some became interested in her.
The giant, shadowy being snapped toward her. She saw nothing of its face but murky fumes. No features at all, until its jaw descended almost to the floor. It pointed a freakishly elongated finger at her and let out a terrible howl. High-pitched and low-pitched at the same time, loud as a gunshot, rattling doors, shaking glass fixtures and lamps and wall art.
Something took control of Kate at that moment, a flight response so strong, she had no choice but to obey, to turn and flee, slam that door and run as far and as fast as she could. She didn’t remember how, but she made it to the street, where she screamed and screamed and screamed, until the entire neighborhood woke up, lights coming on, people rushing out.
A few young men from her building offered to come up with her. They did their best to calm her down as she prattled endlessly about someone, or something, in her place, attacking her friend. When they got to her apartment, all was quiet. Too quiet. Kate refused to go in. One of the guys yelled from the back bedroom, the one where Charlie had been staying, and she found herself walking, then jogging, then sprinting. Maybe he was alive. Maybe he was okay.
When she reached the door, she stopped, and the air evacuated her lungs like someone punched her in the gut. Charlie wasn’t all right. Not at all. Lying on the bed, arms dangling, face covered by a mess of his own tangled, tw
isted hair.
“Charlie! NO!” she hurried to him, but felt an army of hands holding her back.
“He’s gone,” someone said.
“I’m so sorry,” said another.
Kate wailed Charlie’s name over and over, her emotions too ragged to cry. Instead, she studied everything—Charlie, the bottle of pills on the table, the scratched mirror and chalky residue. Two and two equaled four.
“Looks like he…he overdosed,” one of the young men declared.
“No he didn’t!” she struggled free. She refused to believe he was dead. “Charlie!” she turned him over, his face long and contorted. She didn’t care, pressing her lips and blowing, trying to breathe some life into him. More hands, firm and determined, pulled her away, but not before she snatched something from Charlie’s hand. A notepad, something scribbled in ink. The last message from Charlie.
Your Number Page 1