“YOU FUCKING WHORE! YOU FUCKING WHORE! YOU FUCKING DIABOLICAL CUNT, I’LL KILL YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME, I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU, YOU GODDAMN, DIABOLICAL BIIIIIITCH!”
I sob like a baby. I sob and sob like I have never sobbed before. I have to call the police. But what can they do? I have to call Lacey, but what can she do? I need to get some help because there’s a part of me that thinks I’m really imagining all this. None of it is real. My madness has finally found its home, has finally found something solid to hold onto, and it is now manifesting itself in ways I never thought possible.
I cannot believe Janeen has stooped to such a vindictive, senseless act as killing my kitty. My heart goes out to Junky. My heart, quite literally, breaks, unable to comprehend this senseless, murderous killing of my poor, dear, adorable feline. For some reason, this atrocity is the worst and vilest thing a person (a ghost) can do. I vow I will kill Janeen, but my words, of course, are empty. No matter how vengeful I get, how vengeful I feel, Janeen’s words stare back at me from the wall written in Junky’s blood. She has got me where she wants me. What am I up against, something I cannot see? Something I cannot touch?
“Junky,” I say in a whisper. “Oh, God. Junkster. What have I done? I’m so sorry, Junk. Please God, Junk, forgive me.”
I sob again for a long, long time. I am numb all over.
~
The police can offer little because I can’t tell them, “Sure, I know someone who has a vendetta against me. Her name’s, Janeen. She died about twenty-three years ago. She’s a ghost. What do you think I should do, officer?”
I’m asked all kinds of questions, and Deputy Shanaughsy, a man in his mid-thirties with dark hair and brown eyes, nods and writes things down in his little notebook. His expression never wavers. He does not smile and does not frown. He keeps looking at the message on the wall, as if he can’t make out what it means.
I’m trembling like an addict. I try to light a cigarette but decide against it. It’s no use. He tells me they’ll board up the windows and is surprised to find cash in the register still. I take the cash and the lock-box. I can’t think straight. He tells me, after roughly an hour, that I should probably go home. If I want, they can watch my apartment. He’s seen things like revenge before, and this doesn’t look like the average prank. This is someone who wants to ruin me, and I believe he is being sincere. I finally make up a story about a guy who keeps calling and calling and won’t leave me alone and keeps coming into the store, pestering me. I tell Officer Shanaughsy that I don’t think the man capable of something like this, and I am afraid to tell him a lie, but I feel I have to tell him something. So, I make up a description, and give a false name, and I tell the deputy that it is probably a false name.
“It’s okay, Miss Thorn,” he says. “We’ll see what we can do. People like this don’t get away that easily.”
I want to tell him he won’t find anything except my dead body, but I resist. After some persuading, I take the money from the register and the lock-box and shove it down my pants.
He asks me if I want a ride home. I tell him no, I’m only a couple of blocks away. He asks me if I’m sure. I tell him yes.
Unable to believe what has happened to me since talking with George the night before, I start walking home in the rain. I am numb, in a daze. This is all dreamland, and I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, scream, run, jump up and down, or curl into a ball.
I pass the alleyway, the one behind the bookstore and catch a glimpse of something, the cages that are traps for strays. It makes me ill. I think I see something else, but I don’t trust my eyes right now.
I imagine, hallucinate a meow, and start crying again. Junky’s death has unsettled me, shaken me very badly. The death is so senseless and cruel, I can’t get over it. And I’m not sure I ever will.
I hear the meow again. This time, I realize it’s a real meow, and I’m not imagining it. I turn my head, looking carefully down the alleyway. I see a black cat who looks like Junky, but I know it can’t be Junky. I feel a creeping, icy finger of horror because now I know Junky, too, is a ghost, and that is by far worse than Janeen being a ghost or seeing his blood all over the wall.
It is simply Janeen’s way of torturing me further, of driving me mad. I hate her, feel boiling rage, and wish I could grab her transparent throat, so I could strangle the ghostly life out of her!
The cat meows again. I know the sound of that voice, and his fur is wet and slick from the rain. His orange eyes are wide, and he is standing there all by himself, as if waiting for me to approach, to say something, and I realize that this is Junky, and that Junky is not dead, that Junky is very real, and very much—thank God, somehow—alive! Somehow, someway, my little Junkster has gotten away!
I start bawling again because even though this has been one of the worst days of my life, seeing Junky alive is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. This is Junky, and he is not dead. This is my loving, selfish, opinionated kitty, and God bless him, he is alive!
“Junky?” I say. My voice is thick, and I squat down. I won’t believe it until I touch him, until I pet him.
Junky meows again and trots toward me, acting like a lost dog. He jumps up as if he’s my kid and flies into my arms, but I think he just wants me to protect him from the rain, because like all cats, he doesn’t like being wet.
Surprising me, he nudges my chin and nose almost violently. He meows again. Junky has never talked this much before, and it’s the most beautiful sound in the world!
“Junky, you’re alive,” I say, crying in relief. I can’t believe it! “Oh, thank God, Junky! Oh, I’m so happy to see you! Oh, Junkster, I was so upset! I love you I love you I love you! I thought you were dead, Junky!”
Junky’s purring loudly. He meows again as if to say, No, that bitch didn’t kill me. Can I can some Whiskas now, the salmon and chicken? I think I deserve it after all the hell I’ve been through.
He seems relieved to see me. He’s nudging me still and actually licking my face, and I let him give me all the affection he can because I don’t get to see this side of Junky often.
I hurry home, trying to keep Junkster out of the wet by putting my jacket over him as much as I can. I cry most of the way home. It’s been such an emotional, lunatic day. I will protect Junky now with my life. But I am still terrified because I can’t possibly imagine what will happen next.
14.
A Little Madness
I do not go home immediately. Instead, I knock on George’s door. He opens it shortly afterward.
George stands there wearing a very tight black T-shirt with something so faded on the front; I can’t tell what it is. He smiles, then looks at me as I’m dripping wet. He looks at Junky and frowns. He doesn’t say anything at first. He stares at me, concerned, then gently urges me inside, his hand on my back. He tells me to have a seat.
“Junky wanted to see you, George,” I say, but my voice cracks. My humor is gone. I can’t muster up the strength to joke about anything. I set Junky down, sit in the recliner, but God Bless him, Junky jumps back into my lap, as if he senses—as if he knows—I need him, too. My and Junky’s relationship has just taken a newer, compassionate turn.
“Rayleigh,” George says. “What happened?” His voice is very serious. He knows something is wrong, obviously. I guess he would be a fool not to.
I close my eyes and shake my head.
George goes to the bathroom and comes back with a bright yellow towel. I wipe my face and ask him if it’s okay to dry Junky with it. Junky seems grateful.
“Want a brandy?” he asks.
I nod vigorously.
Gone for a moment, George returns with a tall brandy. I drink it down hurriedly. George is the perfect gentleman. He is a knight right now, my saving grace. I don’t know what I would do without him.
“Rough day?” he says.
I cry a little bit. I hate doing this to him. It makes me feel stupid and weak. Junky curls up on my lap, and I put my hand on his back. I
like having Junky here and don’t ever want Junky to leave my sight again. I love Junky more than I’ve ever loved him.
“I’m going crazy, George,” I say. The brandy has warmed me. It has, for the moment, taken my shakes away.
“I know you’re going crazy,” George says, and I think that is the perfect thing he could say. I wonder how Pug is doing with Mom.
After I’ve calmed down a bit, I manage to tell George about my entire day. When I look up, his eyes are wide, an expression of horror on his face. His dark skin has drained slightly of blood, making him look ashen. I tell him about Pug and how Pug looked. I tell him about going back to the bookstore and what I saw. I tell him about the message, about the policeman, walking home and finding Junky, then knocking on his door. I tell him I have to go home as soon as possible. I need to call Lacey still. I think it’s funny I haven’t told her anything yet, when usually she is the first to know.
George hands me the phone. He tells me to call her. I try. Not only is there no answer, but the phone has been disconnected. No longer in service. The number I have called…blah blah blah. I have a horrible suspicion Janeen has gotten to Lacey. I start crying and trembling again. George is very worried. I can’t stop shaking. I’m hysterical. I feel a snap in my brain, the sure twist confirming my lunacy. I am being haunted and going mad at the same time. It is not a good combination. I’ll be lucky if I live through it. In my head, I hear Janeen laughing. Everything turns electric blue for a split-second, then fades.
George is trying to comfort me, but I’m so numb and terrified, I can’t even feel him. Junky looks up at me and meows. It is a concerned meow. Junky is the perfect cat. George is the perfect gentleman.
“Let’s call Lewis,” he says. “I think we need to take a ride to Louisville. Lewis has a car, doesn’t he?”
I nod.
I try to dial. My fingers keep slipping over the keys. I can’t remember his number. I try digging through my purse, but I can’t coordinate my hands and fingers. I’m crying again. I start to whimper, letting out tiny screams.
George holds me for a second, telling me to shush, to try and calm down. He rifles through my purse and finds a piece of paper with a number on it. He shows it to me. It says, ‘Lewis.’ George dials the number. He does not hand me the phone. Apparently, Lewis answers, and that makes me feel better. George, bless his heart, does all the talking. The conversation seems very agreeable from what I can tell. After several minutes, he hangs up the phone and looks at me. He tries to smile. “Lewis will be here in five minutes,” he says.
~
While waiting, George gets me to calm down. He makes me another brandy, and I drink it in one gulp. I can’t tell if it’s making me feel better or worse. It’s daylight still. The rain is falling. It’s not even five o’clock in the afternoon.
About ten minutes later, there’s a knock on George’s door. It startles me. Junky is startled as well. He looks at the door with wide eyes the only way a cat can. George pats my shoulder and goes to the door, opening it wide. Making me laugh, they introduce themselves. I can see George shaking Lewis’ hand out of the corner of my eye. Lewis comes over, looks worried, and tries to smile. He’s wearing a black polo shirt and khaki pants. I can’t believe how much I’ve missed him! The concern on his face makes me fall in love with him again.
“Still want to get married?” I say, and realize I’m a bit tipsy. I don’t want to be tipsy.
“Jesus,” Lewis says. He kneels down and takes my hand. Junky does not protest. I feel like a mental patient, getting all this care and treatment, and I don’t know what I did to deserve it except go a little crazy. Thank God for madness.
“Boy, Lewis,” I say, “Have I got a story for you.”
Lewis and George look at each other. George raises his eyebrows.
“Not the way I wanted you two to meet,” I say, and turn to Lewis. “It’s not what you think.”
For some reason, I realize my humor has come back. But it feels different. It doesn’t feel like the wholesome humor I share with Mother. This is my lunatic humor. The part where I joke about the worst things you can joke about. The things only you think are funny, but no one else is laughing, the part that deals with everything in some twisted, demented blackness.
It’s good to be home.
“I have to go to Lacey’s,” I say. “Her phone’s been disconnected. I want to drive over there. I want to find out what happened to my friend. I’m afraid Janeen might have gotten to her like she did Pug.”
“Anything you say, Rayleigh,” Lewis says. “Whatever you want.”
Awkward silence elapses for a long time. I can tell Lewis is being very patient but doesn’t understand a damn thing that’s going on, poor guy. And for some reason, even though I’ve told Lacey, and even though Pug knows things normal, regular people don’t—and George, I think believes me—I know it’s not easy for Lewis. I’m not going to tell him my story because my story could never happen. My story is fucking wacko. My story will never make sense to him, and he will never believe it. Can I blame him?
This thought crushes me. It rips my heart out.
George and Lewis exchange words, but I’m listening to Carmilla. I’m hearing Janeen. Lewis nods. George is talking very softly. Lewis, for some reason, seems understanding. I hear the words, “Whatever we have to do. I’ll do whatever we have to do.”
After a while, they get me off the chair.
“Come on, sunshine,” George says. “We’re taking a ride.”
I can’t believe I hear this. My heart revs like a jackhammer. I’m suddenly weak, unprepared, and I am not ready to confront Janeen at all. I want absolutely nothing to do with her. In fact, part of me wants Janeen to kill me already, so I can be done with the whole mess. I just don’t want to play anymore.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
It doesn’t sound like my voice. It sounds like somebody else. It sounds like Carmilla. No, it sounds like Janeen. Or is it Emma? Who the hell knows?
“Wherever you need to go,” Lewis says.
When I stand up, my legs buckle. They turn to jell-o, and I fall. Luckily, I have two strong men to save me.
~
“What do you think, George?”
I hear this from the back seat of Lewis’ Explorer. I panic for a second, thinking Junky has been left behind, but I relax when I see him on the floor behind the driver’s side. George is sitting in the passenger’s seat.
“I don’t know. I know what she needs to do,” George says. “But I don’t think she’s in any condition to go.”
“Maybe that’s what we’re here for. I’m worried about her.”
“Me, too, friend,” George says. “Me, too.”
“I can hear you,” I say, and they both jump. It makes me laugh.
The rain is still coming down. It’s wet, gray, cold, and ugly outside. So much for spring.
“Would you believe me, Lewis, if I told you I was going crazy?” I say.
“At this moment, I’d believe anything.”
There is silence for a while.
“Rayleigh,” Lewis says in a very calm voice. “Do you want us to take you anywhere? Do you want to rest and get some sleep?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t want to rest. I have some things to do, but I’m afraid to tell you. I’ll have to tell you what I told my mother. You’ll just have to trust me.”
I see Lewis look over at George for conformation. George nods. Lewis looks skeptical, but he says, “I trust you, Rayleigh.”
I close my eyes. I see a little girl standing on a street corner. I see Bandit from long, long ago. I see Janeen looking just like me with no eyes. I hear myself screaming, but it’s not now, not at the moment. It’s something from my past. I see the bookstore torn to pieces. I wonder how I’m going to rebuild my life. I wonder if I’ll be given the chance.
“Lacey lives at The Hawthorne Establishment,” I say. “It’s on Eighth and Sherman.”
Lewis puts the truck in gear, a
nd we’re off in no time.
~
I hate to think about it.
I get out of the car in front of The Hawthorne Establishment. I tell them I want to do this by myself. I have never felt more afraid of anything. I have a sickening, dreadful feeling in my gut and heart. I hear laughter again in my head.
I walk up the sidewalk to Lacey’s building. It’s still raining. The building is a blocky cream color. It’s old-fashioned, but at the moment, I can’t think of what that is. I keep thinking Georgian, but I know that’s not right. It has the flat façade, but it’s more ostentatious. Lots of pretty windows and nice doors. Wasn’t it Victorian? Am I remembering things wrong? Good God, what is happening to me?
I walk inside. There’s a foyer. It’s a fancy building, and for some reason, I don’t remember it this way. I have to buzz Lacey to get in. I look at the mailboxes and see ‘Little’ written on number 14G—as in girl. It looks familiar, and I feel the world come back to me. I buzz it, and she doesn’t call down, but the buzzer sounds to let me in, and I open the door. I breathe a sigh of relief. My friend is okay. I’m going to let her kiss me the way she’s always wanted.
I walk up the stairs to 14G. The carpet is plush, dark green, walls antique white. The molding around the doors matches the rug. The lighting is dark and comfortable, and the numerals on the doors are written in fancy gold. It’s a classy place. Wasn’t it blue before?
I knock on the door of 14G, and it opens shortly afterward.
Lacey is not standing in the doorway. It’s a man in his fifties. He’s portly, squinting behind tortoise-shell glasses, wearing red suspenders over a pale blue shirt. He has a big round nose and gray hair. His eyes are vivid, startlingly blue, matching his shirt. He wears a nice smile, but he frowns when he looks at me.
“Who is it, dear?” I hear a female voice from inside. It’s the man’s wife. I feel the ground turn to liquid. I am instantly swallowed by it. I swoon with the onslaught of blackness, and I’m afraid I’m going to pass out. I reach out for the molding and grab empty air instead. It feels like slow motion. I’m watching my hand move through the air without me, clutching at nothing. The man—startled, eyes going wide—reaches out to catch me. My eyes flutter. Everything is going black. He pats my face with a rough, calloused hand.
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