Simple Things

by Press, Lycan Valley

  Morning is hours away. Will she make it?

  She peeks over the satiny edge of the comforter. The room is black, barely a sliver of light sneaking in through the closed blinds and curtains. The silhouette of the lamp hangs ominously from the ceiling. She closes her eyes. Opens them—the silhouette is still there. Nothing unusual. She reaches for the remote, hits the button. The light comes glaring on, brighter than bright.

  Damn!

  Something’s hanging from the lamp. Again.

  She closes her eyes, grabs the remote, shuts the light. Yanks the covers over her again.

  She lays in bed, afraid to open her eyes. Afraid to let the light in. Afraid to let the air in. She pulls the covers higher over her head. When she was a child she knew this would protect her, especially from vampires. She was mortally afraid of them then. And today? Maybe still. Vampires bit your neck in the night, so she knew if she covered her neck while she slept they couldn’t get at her. That feeling returns now, heart racing, muscles tightening, threatening to strangle her in their fatal grip.

  This room—her childhood bedroom—should feel comfortable, safe. She shared many stories here with her mother and her sister. They’re gone now and the house is hers. She hasn’t been back in years. It’s strange.

  She could have slept in the master bedroom, in her mother’s bed. That would have been odd, creepy. She chose her own room, her own bed. The room is filled with toys and dolls, remembered things. Forgotten things. Remembered memories and forgotten ones.

  As a child her toys were alive. Her best friends. One by one she left them behind, forgotten and forlorn.

  She knew she shouldn’t have come back. This house always scared here even though her mother said there was nothing to be scared of. And she doesn’t believe in ghosts or goblins or any of that. She’s a rational, intelligent woman. Good job. Successful. With her own house. But she had to come back. She had to come to close out the estate. But it’s more than that. She had to come to lay the past to rest. Settle things that should have been settled a long time ago.

  The words to the old Eagles’ song kept turning over in her head, something about checking out any time you wanted to, but never being able to leave. That’s how she feels about this house. About her family. She moved as far away from them as she could as soon as she could. She went off to college and never moved back, visited only rarely. She thought it would be safe with everyone gone. She was wrong.

  ***

  Seconds tick on the bedside clock. Minutes open like a gaping maw, containing a lifetime in each one. A memory and a flashback. A part of her life. She closes her eyes to shut them out.

  The house is silent. Her mind is anything but—on a roller coaster ride from heaven to hell and back to hell again. She slides the covers down below her eyes, stares up at the lamp. The lamp, like some big eye dangling from the ceiling, like an alien intelligence, with a mind of its own. Every time she turns on the light the lamp is there, calling to her. But she has to turn on the light. She has no bedside lamp, the bulb burned out long ago. No flashlight. Her cell sits on the nightstand, the battery low. She left the charger at home. She can’t afford to waste the battery using the flashlight function. She reaches for the phone, presses 9-1…

  They’ll think I’m crazy calling 9-1-1 ’cause I’m scared of the dark—scared of the light.

  She dials Rance, her boyfriend. His phone goes to voicemail and why not? It’s two in the morning. He’s sleeping as she should be.

  “Hey,” she says, avoiding looking at the lamp. “It’s me. Nothing important.” Yeah. “Call me when you get this.”

  She can’t avoid the lamp. It hangs right over the bed, like some living object. A living thing. She turns on the light, surely there won’t be anything there, it’s all in her head. But there it is—dangling again. What is it? What the hell is it? This never happened before. Never happened when her mother or sister were here. Or when she slept here as a girl. Sure, she was afraid of Dracula and the dark, but there was never anything here. Now she doesn’t believe in Dracula and the room is scarier than he ever was.

  She presses the button to turn off the light. The dark will hide the presence. It doesn’t work. She presses again. The light won’t go off. And the something—she can’t tell what—dangles from the lamp, precariously close to the bed. Her heart thumps in her chest. Breath comes quick and ragged. She’s afraid to get up, afraid to go to the door where the light switch is and turn it off, or maybe even dash out the door.

  “I can do it,” she says. “Don’t be afraid. You’re acting like a silly little girl.”

  She closes her eyes, slips one foot out from under the covers. Lets it dangle till the other foot joins it. She sits up, both feet on the floor now. The old ratty rug rough, but warm on her bare feet. Shielding her eyes, she pads to the light switch by the door. Most people want to turn the lights on when they’re frightened. She wants it off. She flicks the switch. Nothing. Nothing happens.

  “Damn!”

  She’s afraid to turn around. Afraid to see the lamp. It’s not whatever’s hanging from the lamp—it’s the lamp itself that scares her. The lamp is the problem. It forces her to see things as they are, not as she wants to see them. She can’t hide from anything with the light on and the lamp is the source of the light. She’s spent her life running and hiding, but she can’t hide in here, not when the lamp is on and it won’t turn off. She prays for daylight. The brightness of the sun will wash out whatever puny light the lamp puts out. Wipe it away. And with it, it will wipe away the presence.

  But the sun is hours away. Hours.

  And when every second seems like an hour and every minute like a day—then hours is a lifetime.

  ***

  “I’m alone,” she says. But who is she saying it to? If she’s alone there’s no one to hear it. No one but her. And she already knows it.

  Nothing worse than being alone, she thinks. She’s been alone a lot. And lonely. Though she knows they’re not the same thing. This is where her mind rambles in the long, lonely night. Why can’t she think of good things, pleasant memories? Or just put her head on the pillow and go to sleep?

  She’s home, in the comfort of her own old bed. The house she grew up in. The house you grow up in is like comfort food, macaroni and cheese, grilled cheese, cinnamon toast and scrambled eggs. So why is she so restless? So scared. So alone.

  I used to like being alone. What happened? Those times when I’d have plans with Lark or Jason or whoever and they’d cancel. I was ecstatic. A day to myself. To do whatever I wanted. To—

  She crunches her eyes closed, doesn’t want to look at the light, the lamp over the bed. Her whole body shivers. I feel like I’ve been here forever. Like I’ve never left this room.

  Her hand crawls outside the comforter, grabbing the blanket at the end of the bed. The blanket her mother had said was her “emergency blanket” if she ever got cold in the middle of the night. She’s cold now. Hot a minute ago, freezing now. The chills. Maybe she’s coming down with something? She wants to check her temp. Eyes still closed, she’s afraid to look at the lamp, to get out of bed and walk the few steps to the bathroom.

  How do other people do it? I never used to be like this. Afraid of my own shadow. Why am I the only left? Why did they all leave me?

  A single tear forms in the corner of her eye. Another tear trickles down the other cheek. She knows she’s going to cry. Wills herself not to.

  “No tears,” she says. “You promised you wouldn’t cry.”

  Promises are made to be broken.

  She laughs.

  She feels like a character in some surreal David Lynch movie. Trapped. No escape route. Too scared to crawl out of bed. Too scared to look at the lamp.

  The hair on the back of her neck stands on end.

  “I’m not alone!”

  ***

  She slides the covers down below her eyes. The lamp dangles from the ceiling. She can’t turn away now. It mesmerizes her. She stares. It
seems to be turning slowly. Growing larger in her vision. She watches it revolve with fascination. Each revolution spins out a new world, a new revelation. It’s as if the lamp is filled with infinite parallel universes—or maybe just memories. Here she’s playing with dolls. Now she’s running. Running. Running. Her head is swimming, so many possibilities. Maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe she shouldn’t be so afraid.

  She’s been afraid her whole life. Afraid to speak or not to speak. When friends wanted her to go out she couldn’t go or wouldn’t go. Made excuses. When boyfriends got too close and wanted her to make a commitment she would find an excuse to cut them off, end the relationship.

  And, as a kid, she had been afraid of the lamp. Afraid of what it might show. Where it might lead. She’s getting less afraid. The light begins to warm her instead of frighten her. The worlds it promises seems more inviting, less intimidating. Less foreign.

  She watches the lamp. Now she can’t take her eyes off it.

  Something flashes beneath it. What? The dangling object, whatever it is, beckons her. She can’t make it out. It’s there, spinning below the lamp, but much faster than the lamp itself. She sits up in bed, unable to take her eyes off it. Leans against the headboard. It’s hard and cold. The lamp now seems warm and inviting. She slowly, tentatively reaches her hand out. Yanks it back. Afraid that whatever’s spinning below the lamp will slice it off.

  “Stop being so silly,” she says. Looks around to see if anyone’s heard her. Realizes that’s even more silly.

  “Oh, grow up why don’t you?” She laughs. That’s what her mother used to say to her. She says it to herself now. Often. Maybe because in some ways she never did grow up. “I guess we all have a bit of our child-selves in us.”

  She remembers Lacey, her favorite doll. Wonders if it’s still in the toy chest over in the corner. The chest with its painted pictures of horses and panda bears, and her name, Amanda Pierce, painted on it in scrolling letters. Wonders what else might be in that chest. All her friends. Her B1 Bananas in Pajamas. Her Barbies. And stuffed animals.

  Now that she’s not afraid of the lamp—okay, less afraid—she pads over to the chest. Puts her hand on the lid, ready to open it. Hesitates. Pulls her hand back.

  What if it’s like Pandora’s Box and when she opens it all the bad in the world will escape, or at least all the bad in her life will. After all she’d abandoned her friends. “Everyone grows up sooner later.” Still, what if they’re angry at her?

  But people grow up, leave their toys behind and find other pursuits. Still, it makes her sad. Maybe that’s why the tears hung on the corners of her eyes.

  She grew up, right? You can’t blame her for that.

  She left them all behind, including Mary, her best friend. Mary was her invisible friend. Her mother said Mary didn’t exist. But for Amanda she was as real as her mom or sister or anyone else in her life. And Mary didn’t yell at her or punish her.

  “Come,” a voice echoes through the room.

  Who said that? The voice is familiar. Amanda slides back under the covers.

  “No,” she says.

  “Don’t go,” another voice trembles.

  Amanda stares at the light in the ceiling. The white beams spread across the room, almost blinding her. Calling to her. Warning her. Of what?

  She remembers now. She’s always been scared of this room. This house.

  “Mary…”

  Mary’s been absent from her life for a long time, but she feels her here.

  “Don’t let her…”

  Amanda wants Mary. She misses her.

  “Mary’s not real,” her mother would say. “Grow up.”

  “Mary’s my friend.”

  “I’m your friend.”

  “I don’t have any friends,” Amanda had shouted.

  She throws the covers down—an act of defiance. Places her feet on the floor and walks deliberately towards the toy chest. Opens it. No bats or evil spirits fly out. It’s filled to the brim with toys from her childhood, Freddie, the panda, and Burt, her favorite teddy bear. And there, right near the top is Lacey, her favorite of all. A tear rolls down her cheek. She picks Lacey up, clutches her to her chest.

  “I love you,” she says, in a weak, pathetic voice. No not pathetic, just regretful. “I won’t leave you again.”

  She holds Lacey out, a couple feet from her face. Her white lace dress is red, splotches of red everywhere.

  Blood.

  “Lacey, what happened to you?”

  She stares at the doll, its head and body in two pieces.

  The doll is silent. But the blood speaks louder than words ever could.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Why? You’re nothing but an ungrateful little bitch.”

  “You’re supposed to be my mother.”

  “I am your mother. Show me some respect.”

  “Earn it.”

  “I’ll earn it you little bitch.”

  Amanda’s mother charges her, belt in hand. The strap comes down on her back, leaving welts that will last for a couple of weeks. She grabs for Lacey.

  Amanda clutches her to her chest. “Lacey! Mary!”

  Amanda’s mother grabs Lacey. Smashes her against the wall. Lacey’s head flies across the room. Amanda thinks she sees blood.

  “You love that damn doll more than you love me.” She yanks a clump of the doll’s hair out, slashes its face with her long nails. Grabs the pieces of the doll, throws them in the toy chest. Storms out. Just another day for Amanda in this house.

  Amanda stares at the lamp. The bright light bathes the room in a white, eerie glow.

  The lamp dangles from the ceiling.

  The body dangles below the lamp. Barely swaying in the soft breeze.

  Amanda’s body.

  Amanda sees the room from up high. And it all comes back. She’s never left this room. Has never been free of this house or her mother.

  She can’t see the lamp from this position. From here the room just looks normal except for her mother glaring up at her. Triumphant. Happy. Gloating.

  A siren blares in the background. Closer. Closer.

  Relief floods Amanda’s entire body. It’s over. It’s finally over. She will have peace at last.

  She’s no longer afraid to see what really happened. What her mother did to her. No longer afraid of reality. She looks at the lamp. It doesn’t scare her. Nor does the body swaying beneath it. In fact, it slows its restless swinging. She knows it will come to rest shortly. She can look at the lamp now without fear.

  Mary reaches out to her, takes hold of her hand, guides her towards the light. Amanda grabs Lacey, takes her with them.

  Most people are afraid of the dark. Amanda Pierce was afraid of the light.

  Not anymore.

  Over here we have a handmade welcome mat. A very personal item that allows homeowners to express themselves and their personality even before you meet them. Oh, don’t open the plastic bag it’s wrapped in. I’m told it could be rather pungent.

  This one was brought in by author Roy C. Booth and his sometimes writing partner, Axel Kohagen. Besides being an award winning author, Roy is also a comedian, poet, journalist, essayist, screenwriter, and internationally awarded playwright.

  HOME, SWEET HELL

  A Henry Carlsen, Paranormal PI Story

  Roy C. Booth & Axel Kohagen

  ANOTHER case of mystic mayhem and murder, Henry thought.

  It was a sunny afternoon when Henry Carlsen entered the Simon Realty office. It was a small building that was once a residence and now surrounded by shrubbery and lots of ugly, unused space. Inside the cheery office Mr. Daryl Simon, a balding middle-aged man who probably hadn't done any decent exercise since college, shook his hand with a warm smile. Just that brief contact alone told Henry that Mr. Simon would always be single, would never make Realtor of the Year, and would die of a heart attack well before his sixtieth birthday.

  “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Carlsen?”

&n
bsp; “No, and make it just Carlsen. No 'mister,' all right?”

  “Um...sure. Carlsen it is, then. Ummm...” Mr. Simon motioned Henry to take a seat. And he obliged.

  “Now, Mr. Simon, the reason why you've called me here?”

  “Thank you for coming all this way...Carlsen. I wouldn't have bothered calling in someone like you; you come very highly recommended, but...” He trailed off, ran his hand behind his neck, and then continued. “The nature of this is so, so, gruesome.”

  “I understand. The police do, too. This sort of thing is usually why I get called, not them.”

  Mr. Simon fidgeted with the pen on his desk, unwilling to verbalize his internal anxiety.

  Henry gave out a low, barely audible sigh. Mr. Simon was going to be one of those clients, it seemed. “You said there had been some issues connected with a house you were trying to sell. Want to give me a little more to go on?”

  “Issues? Issues? Oh, Lord, I don't know where to begin. I...”

  Here comes the floodgate, Henry thought.

  “Janie is dead, Deidre and Mark are in marriage counseling for God's sake, Mr. Allstone ended up in the emergency room, and Mrs. Allstone was put on a seventy-two hour hold!”

  Bingo.

  “Issues...” Mr. Simon sputtered to a stop, wiped his forehead, and then composed himself. “Issues doesn't seem quite to cover it.” He held out his hands in a pleading gesture. “And I could be responsible.”

  “Why don't you start from the beginning, Mr. Simon.”

  Mr. Simon pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “I just listed this house. It was John Davis's mother's house. 1411 Bayberry Avenue, about fifteen miles out of town in Greenwood Township.”

  “At the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  Yep, one of those. “Where is he right now, Mr. Simon? Still in town?”

  “On family vacation. At some resort outside of Bemidji.”