Morris found a post office, sent the box, and then went to his car to drive home. He was hungry and wanted to plan some things. He wanted the action to start. Everyone around him was ready for hibernation, but he felt spring arriving in his soul.
He hummed his favorite song all the way home. Something else taken from his father.
CHAPTER 6
Instead of driving home after Watervliet, Max called his friend Kelvin and asked if he had time for coffee. Kelvin was on vacation and had to watch his two-year-old daughter while his wife was out shopping, so he invited Max to his house in Jersey. The idea of discussing his work under the accompaniment of a two-year-old didn’t excite Max, but Kelvin promised that she would be asleep, so Max went for a visit. He didn’t want to be home and didn’t trust his other friends enough to share his uncertainty and the confusion in his head with them.
The girl was really sleeping and the house was quiet when Max gently closed the door.
“Let’s go to the kitchen,” Kelvin whispered, and Max followed him on his tiptoes. He sat at the table while Kelvin headed to the refrigerator.
“Coffee, beer, vodka?” he asked.
“Vodka would be good, but coffee is enough for now.”
“Yeah, same for me.”
Kelvin set up an old teapot on the stove to boil water for instant coffee, the only kind one would find in this house. Max had heard the sound of this kettle hundreds of times. He and Anna loved to spend time in the Darlings’ big kitchen, talking about anything they came upon. Literature, movies or politics, the outdated popcorn ceiling or a broken toilet. They could entrust their friends with anything; talk about all kinds of nonsense without the worry of being misunderstood. If the Darlings didn’t understand something, they at least tried. The two families were in harmony in spite of the fact the Darlings had nothing to do with creative professions. Nadia was a biologist and Kelvin worked as an airport dispatcher. Max believed that Kelvin could become a great writer and Nadia would be a splendid actress. Only they didn’t take conversations like that seriously. They were satisfied with what they had and did.
Anna often said the Darlings’ kitchen was the coziest place on the planet. Colored in orange and blue, with a soft leather couch in the corner and a white table. There were three still-life pictures on the walls, which Anna had painted for them. Anna didn’t specialize in still life. She didn’t even like to paint it as much as she enjoyed creating imaginary compositions, but she did it without complaining and without thinking twice when Nadia asked her. She came home and put up the first canvas. Two weeks later, a birthday present for her friend was ready. There was a bottle of wine and grapes on the first painting, scattered oranges and apples on the second, and sliced watermelon and a vase with flowers on the third.
“How’s the vacation going?” Max asked, watching his friend’s manipulations. He opened a new pack of sugar to fill the bowl in the shape of a fat cat.
“Oh, it’s great! I’m at home the whole day, play with my daughter, take her to parks, read, watch TV. I haven’t been this lazy in years. Love it. I created myself a Facebook account finally, believe it or not!”
“Facebook.”
“Yeah. You should get your page! You’re a writer. Do you have one?”
“I tried, but it’s not for me. Anna does something on my page, but I have no idea what.”
“I love it, dude! You write all kinds of crap, people comment on it, and then you read their crap. All of this while lying on a couch with a laptop on my gut. All our friends have used it for years, but I wasn’t into it, you know? Now I’m a twenty-first century guy, socializing online. In other words—nice vac. I’m chillaxing.”
“Sofia doesn’t bother you?”
“No! I love to spend time with her. My mother-in-law wants to come and stay for a week. She wants to watch Sofia so I can get some rest, but I finally can see my daughter for more than forty minutes a day. While she’s sleeping, I can take a nap or read. Are you hungry? Nadia made something last night from Pinterest. She’s obsessed with Pinterest and makes something new like, every weekend. Anna knows. This one she made in a slow cooker: chicken, red pepper, what else? I forgot. Cranberries? Some junk, but delicious. I tried it last night, so good.”
“Thanks, but I ate in Watervliet. Some old bar. It was good and the staff was so friendly.”
“Now wait. Let me finish and then you can tell me why in the world you went there. I’m starving.” Kelvin put food from the plastic container on a plate and stuck it in the microwave. The kettle whistled, and Kelvin grabbed two cups, dropped a teaspoon of instant coffee into each, and added boiling water. The Darlings always drank instant coffee because it wasn’t as strong as brewed.
Kelvin put a cup in front of his guest and a plate of cookies. Then he pulled the plate with his food from the microwave, found a fork, and finally sat at the table.
“So, Watervliet,” he said as he dug into the food. It was a mixture of vegetables with meat, covered in gooey sauce.
“I’m surprised myself. I still don’t understand where this idea came from.”
“I’m sure you heard about it somewhere. It accumulated in your brain like dirt.”
“I think so. I thought so, but it’s strange. All of this.”
“Come on, tell me,” Kelvin said as he chewed his food. He dipped a piece of bread into the sauce.
“I don’t know. Something strange. I’m not even sure I should talk about it.”
“You should. If you’re here in the middle of a workday during the workweek it means you should.”
“I’ve had the same dream every night for a few days now. The house.”
Kelvin raised his eyebrows.
“She housh?” he mumbled with his mouth full.
“Housh, yep.”
“Every night?”
“I think there was one night when I didn’t have it. I had too much wine. Besides that one, yes, every night. Well, four or five nights now, but it’s enough to consider it weird.”
“That is weird. I’ve never had repetitive dreams. I don’t have colorful dreams either like you do. Like, everything is the same? Details?”
“Everything. Just the outside though. I haven’t seen it inside. And …”
Max fell silent. He suddenly became dizzy, he thought he was going to fall, and for a split second, he was in a room with white walls, not in the Darlings’ kitchen.
“Are you all right?”
Max shook his head and looked at his friend.
“Max? Dude, the color is gone from your face. What’s wrong?”
“You won’t believe this, but I think I was just …”
Max tried to reproduce the image in his mind, but couldn’t. The moment was too short for his memory to fix it.
“You scared me, brother.” Kelvin stopped chewing. His right cheek bulged out and he looked like a hamster, stashing leftovers for later.
“I didn’t see the house inside,” Max mumbled as he tried to get back to reality. What was it? He had never experienced anything like this. Maybe he thought too much about that house.
“So, let’s get back to your story.” Kelvin put his fork on the table, swallowed whatever he had in his mouth, and helped it down with coffee. “Something told you that the house you dreamed about was in Norwich. Right?”
“Right. Only it’s Watervliet. You know I don’t believe in things like that.” Max tried his coffee then added a teaspoon of sugar.
“I know, but it doesn’t matter. There’s so much in the world we don’t know. So, you went there and …”
“And I found it.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Listen, you could have read about this house, or seen it in the news or somewhere else. Oh! Wait! Wasn’t there some church scandal? Like, they wanted to ruin it or something?”
“I think there was, but I don’t remember. I don’t watch news much, you know.”
“You still could have seen it there.”
<
br /> “I could have.”
“But something doesn’t fit.”
“You know, I felt nervous when I saw the house. Even scared. I don’t know what it was. It wasn’t a panic, I didn’t start to shake, but I felt cold inside. If the owner had offered me a tour of the house, I would have refused.”
“You need to check the web, maybe find some old papers. You might find something. Maybe you’ll see some creepy story about this house. You never know. Maybe ghosts. There are plenty of stories like this.”
“Spot on.” Max put the half-empty cup on the table. “You read my mind as always. I want to write a ghost story. A story about this house and ghosts.”
“You? A ghost story? I don’t see it.”
“Me neither. Think about Foxtail.”
Kelvin chuckled. “He must have chewed his tongue to stop himself from screaming while you were talking.”
“So, that’s what all of this is about. I must have read about it somewhere or maybe I saw it on TV and, at that moment, it impressed me, but I quickly forgot about it. I probably read about it at the same time I read about that guy.”
“What guy?” Kelvin continued to eat.
“I don’t remember for the life of me what that article was about.” Max dug deeper into his memory and a photo appeared before his eyes. “Oh! He saved somebody. I remember, because when I saw his photo, I twitched. Like I have known this man and he is a jerk, but I couldn’t remember meeting him personally. It felt weird, so I crumpled the paper with this article and threw it in the garbage. Probably the house was there, but I forgot about it after seeing the man. I think that was the night I had the house dream for the first time.”
Kelvin stared at Max for a few seconds then stood up, pushed the dirty plate and fork into the dishwasher, and sat back at the table.
“That’s a new one. Some supernatural mumbo jumbo.”
“That’s what I’m telling you. Good we figured it out now.”
“Yeah. We did. No, I mean, it’s explainable. Besides the fact that you decided to write about ghosts. I remember you telling us about trying something different. Not a mystery.”
“I thought about a thriller.”
“Well, it’s going to be a supernatural thriller, then. You can do it. And if your fox terrier is not happy, you can sign up with that other dude … whatever his name is. Oh, Pippin. He promised you a higher royalty, didn’t he?”
“I started with Ian. You have no idea how many rejection letters I received. If it hadn’t been for him, I would have dropped all this business.”
“You didn’t get that many rejections.”
“Well, maybe I’m exaggerating. I’m enjoying working with him and I don’t really—”
“I know. You don’t really like changes. Supernatural thriller, huh?”
An obtuse cry came from another room.
“Sofia woke up. Can you wait?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Kelvin dashed from the kitchen and returned in a couple of minutes with a sleepy daughter hugging his neck, hiding her face in his shoulder. Max talked to her as well as he could. He asked how she had slept and whether she’d had any dreams. The girl grabbed his sweater and mumbled something unintelligible. When Kelvin propped her in the high chair and started to make her food, Max took his leave. He promised to call if he came up with any new ideas.
CHAPTER 7
“More to come, Babe!” Max said as he clanked his glass with his wife’s.
“Of course, I’m not going to be as famous as you are,” she said, “but it’s fine with me.”
“I’m telling you, I owe half of my success to my covers. At least in the beginning. What is the first thing a reader pays attention to when looking at a book of a new author?”
“Cover.” Anna giggled. A second glass of champagne and her eyes were sparkling. Her patent giggle came out only in a condition of slight drunkenness. “My hand shook when I signed the contract. Is there any champagne left?”
“On the bottom.”
“Pour it for me! I want to make a wish.”
Anna reached out her glass and almost fell from the couch where they had settled to celebrate. Their coffee table was cramped with bowls of strawberries, boxes of chocolates, cheese, and crackers. Max wouldn’t have minded a piece of meat and mashed potatoes, but Anna was tired of going to a restaurant and it was her idea of celebration. Champagne, strawberries, and chocolate. Max didn’t mind killing his hunger with snacks. Once.
He poured the remaining champagne in Anna’s glass, and gave her the bottle.
“I need the cork,” she demanded.
He complied. Holding the cork in one hand and the bottle in the other, Anna raised her eyes to the ceiling, concentrated on her wish, and then blew in the neck of the bottle, shut it with the cork, and put it on the floor. Max had observed this ritual dozens of times and ceased to understand its meaning in spite of all the explanations. On one hand, his wife was mature and rational; on the other, she was a teenager who believed in fortune-telling and falling stars.
He loved her for that. He loved her for everything. For her freckles, transparent green eyes, her confidence mixed with shyness, her solicitude with recklessness and slovenliness.
“I’m so happy for you, Babe.”
“I know.” Anna moved closer to her husband and put her head on his shoulder. “It feels so good when your dreams come true. Tell me about your day.”
“Nothing big. Stopped at the Darlings’. That’s about it.”
“You said you went to Trop. Roy. Troy.”
“It’s close to Troy. Watervliet. It’s not important. We can talk tomorrow.”
Anna lifted her head and looked into Max’s eyes.
“I’m not drunk. Tell me. What’s there? I’ve never been to that town.”
“Seriously, nothing important. I just found that house and that’s it. Tomorrow we can—”
“You found a house? The house? From your dream?” Anna looked instantly sober. Her eyes wide.
“Yeah. That house. Let me refresh your drink … but the champagne is finished. Do we have more?”
“Stop wriggling. What happened?”
“Nothing happened.” Max chuckled, not looking at his wife. He scratched his forehead. “Nothing happened.”
“I’m telling you—I’m not drunk! I’m just messing with you. Absolutely like the one from your dreams?”
“That same house.” Max looked at his wife and finished his drink.
“There should be some rational explanation.”
“There is. Kelvin and I talked about it. I read about it somewhere or saw it in the news.”
“That’s what I think. Did you change your mind about the ghost book?”
“No. I told Foxtail about it.”
“I can imagine his reaction.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“But that’s not all? It’s strange about the house, but I know you. What happened, Cat?”
“I don’t know. It’s stupid.”
“Max.”
“Nothing, really. When I talked to Kelvin, I became lightheaded for a sec. That’s it. Just a moment. But I had a feeling like I … like I got transferred to another reality. Different house. Maybe even that house. It was a strange feeling.”
“Are you serious?” Anna looked concerned.
“Just for a moment. It’s nothing.”
“So, you became dizzy? Any strange smells?”
“What smells?”
“I don’t know. Like rotten meat or something.”
“What does it have to do with meat?” Max was genuinely surprised, but he understood where his wife was going. “You mean … I didn’t feel anything. Everything is fine with me. It was just an overload of sensations.”
The worried expression didn’t leave his wife’s face.
“Seriously. Everything is fine,” Max said.
“One more episode like this and you’re going to the doctor.”
“Sure.” Max kis
sed his wife’s forehead.
“How was it? What did you feel?”
“It was strange. I still haven’t defined it.”
“Strange things happen.” Anna reached for her glass. “Did I tell you I received a new cover order?”
“Really? That’s great!”
They talked more, finished their champagne, strawberries, and half-a-box of chocolate. Then they made love on the couch and went to bed after brushing their teeth.
Max couldn’t fall asleep right away. He thought about the house, expecting it to appear in his dream. He tried to understand the irrational fear that visited him, and why he didn’t tell his wife about it. He didn’t want to admit it to himself. It was fear that didn’t have any foundation. If he did see the house in some news report or read about it, even if a murder had occurred there, it shouldn’t have left such a mark on him. Hadn’t he read about murders before that? Didn’t he write about murders himself? It was the norm for him and a necessity for the genre he wrote in, to finish off two or more characters. He did it effortlessly. His heartbeat didn’t speed up; his hands didn’t sweat. He could write about a mutilated body while eating his favorite gummy bears and drinking his coffee, then talk to his wife about a summer vacation. No emotions, no trembling. Just work. So, what was going on now? Thinking about all possible explanations, he still didn’t understand. Thinking over his feelings, he didn’t understand. These feelings were deep, somewhere on the bottom of his stomach, sealed in his heart. They wanted to get free, ridding him of the opportunity to think rationally.
To calm down, Max started to think about an Internet search that he could do tomorrow, concentrating on houses with ghosts or some big time crimes that happened in Watervliet. If he didn’t find anything, he would go there again. There were always people who liked to talk.
CHAPTER 8
In the backyard of Morris’s house there was a shed. He built it himself about twenty years ago. As an architect, he could do that even though this structure was hardly a shed. Rather, it was a miniature house with one room and a toilet. The toilet was just a potty because it would take a lot of time to build a fully functioning bathroom, and it didn’t make sense if one thought about it. But a bathroom existed, even if hypothetically, and also there was a heater. The room had a full-size bed and a refrigerator. A chair stood in the corner, but it was more like a decoration rather than a functioning piece of furniture. The shed didn’t have windows; the walls had been insulated. He closed the double doors from outside with a metal crossbar and a padlock. He wanted to install a plumbing system, but he had never found the time. He painted it inside though, put beautiful parquet floors, hung some of his artwork, but from outside, the shed didn’t give a clue to its core. The boards remained naked, garden tools rested against the walls, a bike tire hung on the door. It was a shed. There was nothing interesting for accidental visitors to see.
The land of dead flowers: (A serial killer thriller) Page 4