Past Presence

by Nicole Bross

  “Leave that job to us, Ms. Eames. I’ll be in touch.” She motions me to exit the kitchen. “You should really get a security system.”

  “Believe me, we’re going to. Cameras too.”

  ***

  The crowd hasn’t dissipated at all when I slip out of the pub to make my way back to the inn side of the building.

  “Audrey,” someone shouts. It’s Livvy, who, despite the memo I sent to the pub staff, is here anyway. Maybe she didn’t check her email before she left for work—it’s coming up on noon, the start of her shift today. But no, she’s here to rubberneck along with everyone else.

  “I got your email this morning. This is so freaky. Have the police told you anything else about what happened to Aaron?” The crowd quiets down, wanting to hear how I’ll reply.

  “Not really, no,” I say. I refuse to be a part of the rumor mill, nor am I going to divulge details about the case that Aaron’s own family probably hasn’t found out about yet. Like how he was stabbed with a knife from the pub’s own kitchen, or that the lead detective’s line of questioning seems to be zeroing in on the fact that the murders started when I moved to town. No, I’ll be keeping those things to myself for as long as possible, thank you very much. Suddenly I’m filled with a deep, burning anger. I want to tell everyone to go home and mind their own business. None of these people look sad, not like they were when it was Marnie’s body in the storm pond that the police were investigating. This is pure sensationalizing of a man’s death, and it makes me sick.

  “Excuse me,” I mutter, and push my way through the throng back to the inn, where Cora’s holding down the fort at the front desk.

  “What did she say?” she asks.

  “Just more questions.” Then, after a pause, “They think the knife might have come from the kitchen. There’s one missing.” Cora covers her mouth with her hand, and for a moment it looks like she’s stopped breathing. Then, with a shudder, she gulps down a lungful of air.

  “Why don’t we have a security system?” I ask her, desperation in my voice. It feels like this one small detail could have meant all the difference in whether Aaron had lived or died.

  “I brought it up once, but Roz didn’t think we needed one. She said she trusted the people here, and it wasn’t that kind of town. She was right—we’ve never had a break-in or even any vandalism, either from tourists or locals.”

  “Well we’re getting one now,” I tell her. “It might not have been that sort of town once, but it is now. You can trust people and still keep yourself safe. First thing Monday, I’m having someone out here to put in alarms and cameras.”

  “That’s your call,” she says with a shrug, and I can see she’s back to being not all that impressed with me and my ideas by her frosty tone and was that an eye roll? “Seems like a case of closing the barn door after the horse has escaped though.” I turn my back on her so she can’t see my own exasperation, and head upstairs to my suite. I grab my journal from the desk drawer, and pore over the visions I’d noted from the three people who had died recently in Soberly, plus Kellen’s version of Pavel’s death. I hadn’t gotten around to adding Aaron’s side of things, so I do that now. It doesn’t even fill an entire page, it was so brief. I read through them again and again, looking for ways they’re related, both in the past and the present.

  What if the thing they all have in common is the fact that they’ve all been seen by you?

  The thought takes my breath away. Am I the reason why these people are all dead? How? I’m absolutely positive I’m not killing them myself during some sort of fugue state. None of these murders were by my hand. Of that, I’m certain.

  What if they weren’t murdered at all? What if you triggered them to kill themselves?

  No. No, that can’t be possible. That’s not how the visions work. People don’t get any sense of the images they show me when we touch. It’s not a two-way street. I, and I alone receive the scenes from the past. The person I’m touching doesn’t.

  Are you sure?

  Could I have unintentionally planted the idea in them somehow to recreate their past deaths? All four had died in the night. Might they have been sleepwalking, or even hypnotized into taking their own lives somehow, through some sort of subconscious suggestion I’d given them?

  I won’t make it to the bathroom in time. I grab the wastebasket sitting beside me and retch mouthfuls of bile into it, tears and snot streaming down my face. When my stomach stops contracting, I curl up into the fetal position on the couch, burying my hands deep inside the sleeves of my sweater, sobbing. What if I did? What if it’s all my fault, and my seemingly benign ability is monstrous?

  MY FAULT? I underline the words in my journal several times, scrawling out my thoughts and how I could have been responsible.

  Wait, my mind instructs, a rational life raft trying to make its way through the dark miasma of self-loathing inside me. Marnie got a call, and Aaron received texts the night they died so they would leave the house. Someone else is involved here.

  Perhaps, but perhaps those two things aren’t related to their deaths at all and are merely a coincidence. Or maybe it was just the excuse the subconscious suggestion needed in order to trigger the fatal consequences. My thoughts are spinning so fast it’s hard to make sense of what’s real and what’s not. All I know is that I can’t count on there being a killer in Soberly anymore, and I don’t know which is worse: hoping there is, or hoping there isn’t, and that four people have only indirectly been murdered. By me. What I want to do is run, to protect them from whatever danger I might expose them to, but ironically, since I’m a suspect, I have to stay. Until I know for certain I’m not responsible, I need to take precautions, which means not letting anyone touch me at all, lest I trigger another death.

  Why hasn’t this happened before? My rational side is still looking for a way out of this. Maybe it has, the paranoid side returns. Maybe you’ve been leaving a wake of the dead behind you all this time. Grocery store clerks. Friends of friends met once at a party. Old coworkers I hadn’t bothered to keep in touch with. How many of them could have died without my ever knowing, set upon their fatal path by an innocent handshake or accidental brush of the skin? The four people in Soberly had died shortly after they’d given me the visions of their past deaths, all within a day or two if I’m correct. Reading back through my journal confirms it. Is something different at play here? I’m balled up on the couch, shaking so hard I have to clench my teeth to keep them from rattling, my mind at war with itself.

  “Audrey?” Kellen’s voice at the door, along with a knock. I remain pressed into the couch, hands covering my face like a toddler playing hide-and-seek, hoping he’ll go away. If I can’t see you, you can’t see me. I hold my breath, silently willing him to go away. Instead, I hear the snick of the lock releasing, and his steps entering the room a moment later. “Audrey? Shit, are you sick? Is it the—do you need the doctor?” I open my eyes to see him advancing toward me. In only a second or two he’ll have me in his arms.

  “Don’t touch me,” I rasp out, my throat still raw from retching. “Get away.” With my hands buried deep in the sleeves of my sweater, I ward him off, pushing him solidly back. He’s caught off guard, and staggers into the table, knocking a glass of water onto the floor. It shatters, sending shards everywhere, but I barely even register it. All I have eyes for is the mixture of fear, confusion, and concern on Kellen’s face.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” he pleads, reaching for my hand. I shrink back into the couch. I can’t let him touch me, I can’t be the one to set him on the path to his death. Not him. If it means I have to hurt him, have to break his heart even, so be it.

  “Just leave me alone,” I say, hugging myself tightly, refusing to meet his eyes. Mine are streaming. “I don’t want you here.”

  “Audrey, what—”

  “I said get out,” I scream. When his eyes start to water it nearly tears me in two, but he retreats toward the door, his shoes crunching the broken gla
ss underfoot. He pauses at the door, out of my direct line of sight, but I can still see his shadow stretching across the floor.

  “Okay, I’m going to call you later, all right? When you’re not so…upset. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Don’t.” I spit the word out, make it bite like a bullet, even though I’m dying inside.

  “Jesus, you’re scaring me right now. I—whatever it is, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Audrey. Please.”

  I press my lips together to keep from begging for his forgiveness and flinging myself into his arms—the safest place I’ve ever known, but now possibly the most dangerous. When a long, silent minute has elapsed, his shadow retreats and the door clicks shut.

  24

  The next morning Detective Chao comes by to inform me that the police are finished with the kitchen and the parking lot, and we are free to resume normal operations. It will still be a number of days until I get my phone back, however.

  “Have you made any progress?” I ask.

  “We’re following up on some leads,” she says evasively. Her pantsuit is beige this time, free of wrinkles, and she looks utterly unaffected by the fact that the temperature has already reached ninety degrees and it isn’t even ten a.m. yet. I, on the other hand, can feel perspiration beading on my brow and am suddenly aware of how pilled my old cotton jersey capris have become. Furthermore, while I brushed my hair this morning, I’m reasonably certain I forgot to put on deodorant. Between all that and the puffy, dark-ringed eyes from a sleepless night of crying, I’m an absolute train wreck.

  A tow truck is pulling away Aaron’s car as we speak, and for the first time, I set eyes on the spot where his body fell.

  “Is that—” There’s a dark stain in the pavement to the left of where Aaron’s car had been parked. I close my eyes tight and press my nails hard into my palm to keep the band around my chest from tightening any further. I force myself to take slow, deep breaths until the feeling passes.

  “Blood comes out of concrete fairly easily. If you have a pressure washer, that’s usually best,” she tells me, as though she’s advising me on how to clean my silverware.

  “I’ll take care of it,” says a voice behind me. I startle so violently Chao grabs my arm to steady me. It’s Drew. Lost in my visceral reaction to the sight of Aaron’s blood, I hadn’t heard him come up behind us. “Sorry, boss lady,” he adds with an apologetic nod. “Came by to see if there’s anything that needs doing.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask. It feels like a job I have no business asking anyone else to do. If Aaron’s blood is on my hands—and there’s at least a good chance that it is—I should be the one responsible for cleaning it up.

  “Yeah, it’s no problem, seriously. We’ve got a pressure washer in the toolshed. I’ll go grab it.”

  “Thanks, Drew,” I say, relieved. He lifts his fist, and out of habit, I bump it with mine. The vision he gives me is of an everyday scene, an adult male I think I’ve seen before, sketching out plans and taking notes for a large display of insects at a museum. I sigh with relief while admonishing myself to be more careful. I can’t afford to screw up even once.

  “Jana wants to talk to you,” Cora says to me when I walk into the inn. “I sent her to the staff room since I wasn’t sure if it was…presentable upstairs.” I bite back a retort because the truth is, my suite is in no way presentable at the moment, and I’d be embarrassed to have an employee see the state of it.

  “Thank you,” I tell her as civilly as possible, and thread my way through the halls to the staff room alongside the kitchen of the pub.

  “Hey, Jana,” I say. She’s sitting at the Formica table as I enter, chewing at one of her fingernails. There’s an envelope sitting in front of her, and as I approach, I see it has my name on it. Between that and her apparent nervousness, I’m pretty sure I know what this conversation is going to be about. “Cora said you wanted to talk. What’s up?”

  “I’m sorry, Audrey,” she says. “I’m…I’m quitting. I’m going to work over at the Surfside Inn.” She slides the envelope over to me. Inside is her letter of resignation, effective immediately, and her key to the main entrance.

  “Is this because of what happened here yesterday?” I know it’s not. She couldn’t have come up with a new job so quickly, and on a weekend to boot.

  “Not exactly,” she confirms. “I wish you the best of luck, I really do, but I need job security. I’m the only provider for both my son and my mother.”

  “And you feel like you no longer have security here. Did you think I wanted to replace you? Because I promise you, I value you very much here, Jana. You’re an essential part of the team. In fact, I don’t know what I’m going to do without you. Will you reconsider and stay?”

  “Thank you, that’s kind of you to say. It’s not that at all, it’s just…” she shrugs and looks down at her hands. “You know what they’re saying.”

  “That the inn’s going to go out of business because I don’t know what I’m doing.” I struggle to keep my voice even.

  “For what it’s worth, I think you’re catching on quick,” she says, her expression earnest.

  “Just not quick enough for you to stay.” I try to smile to take the bite out of the words, but all I can manage is a twist of my lips that feels bitter and fake.

  “I’m sorry,” she says again.

  “I know. Well, I wish you all the best. Thank you for everything you’ve done to help me since I’ve started on here.” We both stand up and eye each other awkwardly. The moment feels like it should conclude with a no-ill-will-here hug, or at the very least a handshake, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I slide my chair back into the table and gesture for her to lead the way out of the room. She does hug Cora when she passes through the entrance, and they make promises to keep in touch that sound sincere.

  “Did you know she was leaving?” I ask Cora once Jana’s left the inn.

  She nods. “She asked me for a reference.”

  “You might have mentioned something,” I snap. “We could have had a new employee lined up to replace her. Now, what are we supposed to do in the evenings? She turned in her key; she didn’t even give a two-week notice. Fuck.” I slump down onto the couch across from the desk. “Looks like I’m on the night shift,” I say glumly, rubbing my temples. Just what I need. Cora shrugs, not looking all that sympathetic, and I feel myself boiling over with rage. “You know, maybe if you were more invested in keeping the inn up and running and less concerned with undermining me, we wouldn’t be in this situation,” I say through gritted teeth. “This is a deliberate act of sabotage.”

  “I didn’t know she wasn’t going to give notice,” she says. “I didn’t even know she got the job until this morning when she told me. How was I supposed to know they would want her to start right away?”

  “You did know she was looking for a new job. You didn’t think that was something worth mentioning? Would you have told Roz if she was still here?”

  “If Roz was still here, Jana wouldn’t have quit. All of these bad things started happening after she died and you came around, trying to replace her. Like you could ever be half the woman she was.” The words, and the venom behind them are like a slap in the face. I actually lean back as though Cora had physically struck me.

  Tears rise unbidden to my eyes, but before I can formulate some sort of a retort, she grabs her purse from underneath the desk and, after digging around in it for a moment, produces her own set of keys. Good, I think viciously, but another part of me is dreading what she’s about to do.

  “It’s you or me,” she says. “Call me when you’re ready to call it quits.” She presses the key ring into my hand.

  REGRESS

  He knew he had to work fast if he was to get everything concealed before the village council came to his home. Thanks to his friend and sometime fellow gambling partner Pavel, who sat on the council, he had gotten the heads up that there may be a mandatory sharing of food and grain to be rationed out a
mongst those who had less, now that it was apparent the storms were not letting up and the pass would not be open until spring. Because of that, although it was well past moonrise, he and Slava were working feverishly to dig a hole underneath the floorboards of their small two-room stone hut. They planned to stuff this small cellar with as many potatoes, beets, onions, cabbages, wheels of cheese, and ropes of cured sausages as they could safely without it being obvious that they were holding back. For now, the food they planned to set aside was hidden under the straw in the chicken coop.

  “Kolya, take the bucket,” Slava hissed to him and passed him up a pail of thin, dusty soil. They had to be careful to conceal the evidence of their project, so they carried the dirt outside, one bucket at a time, and scattered it in the few places that weren’t knee-deep in snow, such as the space under the chicken coop and inside the small barn.

  It was hard work, since the ground was frozen solid, but they persevered, taking turns crouching in the small hole and scraping at it with a pickax until there was enough dirt to scoop up. They worked in near-darkness, with only the light of one small candle. He was terrified of being caught, although the chances of anyone coming around at this time of night, especially a council member, were almost none. Nevertheless, he kept a close eye out the window while Slava dug and instructed her to do the same when he spelled her.

  It had been Slava’s idea to hide the food in the first place after the idea for the ration was first brought up in church this past week. He had resisted her urging to make preparations, telling her that surely people would not agree to have a portion of their hard-earned food, needed for their own families’ survival, given away to others. When Pavel had all but confirmed it was going to happen, and would likely be a full seizure, not partial as they had first believed, she had doubled down, and he had finally relented. After all, she had argued, everyone else will be doing the same thing. Why should we be the only ones to suffer?