by Ron Ripley
And so he settled in behind the door, kept his eye pressed to the slim crack, and waited for Mrs. Anise to come home.
Bonus Scene Chapter 2: A Rose is a Rose
When the elevator doors opened, the familiar smells of her floor washed over Eileen Anise. She smiled at them and the sounds that wrapped around her. From apartment 201 she heard Mr. Daly singing along to an Italian opera. Apartment 202 had the familiar noise of cartoons. The next pair of apartments were silent, their occupants still in the city. In 204 lived a man by the name of Hall and the rhythmic click and clack of a keyboard slipped out. Eileen had spoken to him a few times, and she had learned he was a writer, although he wouldn’t tell her of what.
Humming to herself, Eileen walked at a slow, leisurely pace to her own apartment. When she arrived, she fished her keys out of her purse, went to unlock the door and paused.
On her welcome mat was a small, origami rose.
A smile spread across her face as she bent down and picked it up. The rose was delicate, the folds far more intricate than any other piece of origami art she had seen. Eileen straightened up, held the rose closer and wondered how anyone’s hands could do such delicate, precise work.
And she wondered who would be so phenomenal as to leave such a piece of art on her doorstep.
Once more, a happy hum came unbidden to her lips, and she let herself into the apartment. Eileen paused to place the wedge beneath the door, propping it open as was her habit when she came home.
She always cooked a large dinner, as if her husband still would be coming home from a day at Public Works.
More often than not, she had company for her late evening meal. Usually the Pallis twins, whose mother was out doing unspeakable things to put food on the table and pay the bills. Eileen shuddered at the thought and went to the dining table. She set the rose down at her place and hung her purse up in the kitchen. Then, with a nod to herself, Eileen went about the business of fixing dinner.
Soon, water boiled on the stove for the pasta while ground beef browned in the stove. Red sauce, from a jar, since she didn’t have the patience to make her own, simmered in a pan on the backburner.
Satisfied that the various ingredients would finish at the same time, Eileen went to the table, sat down, and picked up the rose.
The paper was smooth, feeling as though it had been made from silk. It was also cold to the touch, the sensation sharp and unpleasant.
But it was too beautiful to put down.
Eileen held it up closer so she could examine it without having to squint or dig her reading glasses out of her purse. She rotated the paper flower, her fingers becoming numb as she held it.
Then the rose moved.
At first, she thought it was her eyes, tired from cleaning the shelves at the library. A moment later, she was sure it was a trick of the light, or perhaps the flower unfolding from her handling of it.
But it was none of those.
Instead, the paper petals opened with a casual, elegant grace that snatched the breath from her mouth and left Eileen filled with wonder. She brought the flower even closer, her heartbeat increasing.
The unmistakable scent of a rose filled her nose, and she felt her eyes widen with wonder.
She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and then gagged as the powerful aroma transformed into a putrid stench. Gagging, Eileen dropped the origami flower.
Yet the paper clung to her fingers.
She shook her hand, but the flower wouldn’t fall. Gritting her teeth, she shook her hand even harder, and let out a yelp of surprise and pain.
The rose petals had sprouted thorns, and each of the sharp barbs had sunk themselves into the tender flesh of her fingertips.
“Do you like my flower?” a voice asked from behind her.
Eileen spun in her chair with enough force to knock herself loose, falling to the floor and landing with a heavy, painful thud.
A short man stood behind her chair, his form not fully conceived. It seemed to fade in and out of existence as if someone was opening and closing a glass door. At times, he was nothing more than a murky image; at others he was completely visible.
Through the shock and pain, Eileen noticed that he wore battered overalls and had a face that was weathered from long years in the sun. Wrinkles rippled around his eyes and mouth. A large brimmed straw hat hid his eyes, and the fingers on his large hands were crooked and bent. His boots were large and scarred, covered with dirt that they would never be free from.
“Can’t you speak?” the man asked, his head tilting to the left.
Numbed by the surreal events, Eileen could only nod.
“Then do so,” the man commanded.
Eileen tried, stuttered, then let out a sharp cry of shock as the rose’s thorns burrowed deeper into her.
“What do you want me to say?” she gasped.
The man frowned, shook his head and said, “That won’t do. Not at all.”
“What won’t do?” Eileen asked, trying again to shake the rose off but only encouraging the bizarre origami to cling with greater tenacity.
“Your voice,” the man explained, “it is not sweet. Which means you are not sweet. And since I must have fertile and flavorful soil for my rose, you are not it. She cannot live within you.”
Eileen didn’t know why, but she sobbed with relief at the man’s statement.
That relief vanished with his next sentence.
“But you can feed her,” the man said, and he nodded.
Before Eileen could do more than blink, the rose unfolded itself, again and again until the red paper could have covered Eileen twice over.
And it started to.
The paper wrapped around her ankles snaked up her calves and bound her knees together. She tried to kick free, but as she was occupied, the piece of the rose anchored in her hand jerked her arm to her side. Horrified, Eileen opened her mouth to scream, but the paper wrapped around her chin and the top of her head, cinching down tightly and snapping her teeth together.
She let out a terrified moan and toppled over, the paper constricting around her like a great snake. The ghost stood in the same spot, watching her.
Beyond him, Eileen saw a figure in the doorway, and she felt a desperate surge of hope.
She recognized the person, it was Stefan Korzh, the curious little boy who was always reading about ghosts in the school library.
But as her eyes locked with his, she noticed there was no sympathy to be seen. He watched her, his plain features unmarred by concern or excitement.
Eileen tried to call his name, but she gagged instead.
“Now it’s time for her to eat,” the man explained, “it may take some time though, and she’s none too gentle about it either.”
That, Eileen, realized as the paper tore a large chunk of her cheek away, was a terrible understatement.
Bonus Scene Chapter 3: At Home
“Where were you?” Stefan’s mother asked as he walked down the stairs.
“Outside,” Stefan answered.
His mother looked up from the catalog that had arrived in the mail earlier and frowned at him. “What were you doing outside?”
He smiled and answered, “I was looking at flowers.”
Her brows furrowed with confusion. “You hate flowers.”
“Most of them,” he corrected. “Not all. What’s for dinner?”
“Soup,” she answered, turning her attention back to the catalog.
Stefan knew he was lucky to get even soup when a new list of items arrived. Still, he hated her for her lack of domesticity during those times. He could only hope it would be a small selection, one that wouldn’t keep her occupied for too long. If it did, he would be eating soup for three meals a day until she was done.
“Your father called,” she said as Stefan turned to go into the kitchen.
“Yes?” Stefan asked, hesitating in the doorway.
“He may be home tonight,” his mother continued without a glance towards him. “He is nearby,
bargaining with someone for a piece.”
Then she straightened up, stretched and added, “Evidently, there is someone else who is seeking to purchase the piece.”
Stefan faced his mother again. “That’s not smart.”
“No,” she agreed, “it usually isn’t. I don’t want your father beating anyone up again. I don’t want to waste any money on bailing him out.”
Without responding, Stefan stored away the statement for later. Should his father find fault with him for some reason, then sharing his mother’s thoughts would distract the man long enough for Stefan to find a safe hiding place.
Once in the kitchen, he rummaged around for a can of soup that could fulfill two basic requirements. The first was that the soup had not passed its expiration date. More than once he had found canned goods that were older than him in the pantry. And second, the soup would be one he could actually stomach, regardless of whether or not it was still good.
He found a can of pork and beans in a back corner and was surprised to see it had not yet expired. Grinning, Stefan went to the countertop, pulled out the can opener and then came to a stop. He listened and felt uncomfortable.
The house was silent.
His entire life had been filled with the noises of the dead, moaning and complaining from the objects they were bound to.
From the dining room came the screech of chair legs on the floor and his mother appeared a moment later, an expression of frantic worry on her face.
“What’s going on?” she asked in a whisper. “Why are they all quiet?”
“Don’t ask me,” Stefan said, putting as much bluster and bravado as he could into his voice. “They’re your pets.”
Normally, the remark would have earned him a slap or even the confiscation of his food.
This time his mother didn’t seem to hear him.
“What’s going on?” she demanded, doing an admirable job of keeping the fear out of her voice.
None of the dead responded.
“Tell me!” she ordered.
A small child appeared by the back door. Stefan forgot her name, but he had seen her before. She had once owned a teapot.
“He used Horatio,” the little girl said. And then she vanished.
“What do you mean?” his mother called out after her.
Stefan stiffened, grasped the can of food as tightly as he could, and took a small step back.
“What did she mean?” his mother asked, confused, glancing over at him. The confusion on her pale, puffy face vanished as she saw his expression.
“Stefan,” she said, anger exploding out of his name, “what did she mean?”
“I don’t know,” Stefan lied, taking a larger step towards the hall. “What do any of them mean? They’re all crazy.”
“Tell me,” his mother hissed, fury lighting her pale brown eyes. “Tell me what she meant, damn it!”
Without a word, he turned and raced for the hallway.
Instead of freedom and safety, he ran into the broad, muscled chest of his father.
The man’s equally large hand swung back and crashed down, striking Stefan on the side of the head and smashing him into the wall. Stefan lost control of his limbs and slid face down to the worn runner on the floor. He tasted blood in his mouth, and an ache settled in his head even as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Bonus Scene Chapter 4: Punished and Unhappy
“What did you think you were doing?” his father demanded.
Stefan spoke slowly, his jaw aching. With each word formed he winced, but he managed to answer.
“I wanted to see what would happen,” Stefan said. It was half of the truth, but at least there was truth in it. His father might suspect him of withholding information, but he wouldn’t think he was lying.
The large man’s face pockmarked and ravaged from some childhood disease, frowned.
“You wanted to see what would happen,” his father muttered. “Perhaps I should ask who this person was that suffered to satisfy your curiosity?”
Stefan didn’t respond.
“No,” his father sighed, “I think not. Too much information in this situation might be worse than none at all.”
Silence fell over them as Stefan kept his eyes away from his father’s. Any sort of challenge to Ivan Denisovich Korzh came at a heavy price, and Stefan’s body already ached from the single blow he had received earlier.
His father cracked the knuckles on each hand, leaned a thick shoulder against the frame of the doorway and stated, “You are not a stupid child. You chose Horatio with care, I am sure. A choice tailored to your victim.”
Stefan kept his face free of any expression, and his father let out a grim chuckle.
“Yes,” Ivan said, “I can see it perfectly. Someone thrilled with nature and art. A girl. Or perhaps a woman, someone who has slighted you in some way.”
Stefan’s heart began to race, and he felt the veins pulse beneath the skin. His face grew red, and the increase in blood flow caused the pain he felt to magnify.
“Yes,” Ivan whispered, “that is it exactly. But it was no girl. No. You would have chosen something finer for a girl, and not merely some folded paper rose. This is a woman who has focused herself on art. And her crime, what was it?”
Stefan reined in his heartbeat with difficulty before he answered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His father’s laugh shook the bedroom walls, and Stefan was thankful that the man found humor in his denial.
“Keep your secret, Stefanushka,” his father said, “but do not think you shall be let off easy for this offense. I shall discuss with your mother what sort of punishment would be fitting. I will have this from you though, you will not steal from your mother after this moment, is that understood?”
The last words were spoken in a harsh, low tone that Stefan had heard far too many times to take lightly.
In silence, he nodded his head.
“Good,” his father said, and he left the room, closing the door behind him.
Stefan listened to the man’s loud steps as they retreated down the hall, then thundered down the stairs. Soon his parents would discuss his punishment, and he had promised not to steal from his mother again.
Stefan lay back on his bed, flinching at the pain. He snaked a hand under his pillow, found the bolt and grabbed hold of it.
A weak smile, battered by the steady throb of his injuries, crept onto his face as he cupped the worn metal to his chest.
He hadn’t lied to his father.
Stefan wouldn’t steal from his mother again because he had already stolen what he needed. And soon he would use the bolt the same way he had used the origami flower.
From around the house, he heard the rise and fall of the complaints of the dead. Beneath those sounds came the familiar tune of his mother and father arguing. And it was to those noises Stefan drifted off, dreaming about what he would do as soon as fate allowed him to.
Bonus Scene Chapter 5: A Conversation in the Woods
Stefan found his freedom restricted.
His parents, in their infinite wisdom, no longer allowed him to go and play with his friends.
He felt it was a curious sort of punishment because he hadn’t had any friends since he was nine years old. Then again, his parents had stopped paying attention to him around that time as well. The dead and the items they possessed had taken up what little had been available to Stefan.
So, his being required to remain in the backyard, and the woods behind it, which didn’t affect him for either good or ill.
Stefan left the house, passed through the yard and entered the trees. The birds ceased their calls as he neared them, and squirrels seemed to flee his presence. Stefan fantasized that it was him they were afraid of, but he knew that wasn’t the case. They were afraid of what he carried.
When he was far enough in so he could hear his father approach before the man might see him, Stefan found a comfortable place to sit down. After he had settled in, Stef
an withdrew the bolt from his front pocket and held the worn metal up. It, like the origami rose, was cold to the touch, and it made him smile.
“Come out, come out,” he said in a soft voice, and his ears popped painfully as if there had been a sudden change in air pressure.
A teenager, who looked only slightly older than Stefan, sat across from him. The other boy was gray and opaque. His features were long and narrow, his eyes placed too close together. A large bump interrupted the slope of his nose, and he licked at the corners of his mouth in a way that made Stefan wonder whether or not the other boy even knew that he was doing it.
“Who are you?” the new boy asked.
“Stefan,” he answered, “who are you?”
The other boy hesitated, then said, “Erik. Erik Powers. Erik Powers, Senior.”
“Your father’s dead,” Stefan said.
Erik nodded. He glanced around and said, “So am I. I didn’t have no kids though. Ain’t no juniors running around.”
Stefan didn’t respond to Erik’s comment, and he kept his lack of interest in the matter to himself. He hadn’t awakened the ghost to discuss matters of familial lineage.
“I need a favor from you,” Stefan said, repeating what he had written down. He had memorized the small speech, tailoring it to the dead teenager in front of him.
Erik’s small eyes narrowed and focused on him.
“What sort?” the ghost asked.
“The killing kind,” Stefan answered.
Erik sniffed and looked away. “Don’t know why you’re talking to me about killing.”
Stefan repressed a smile and asked, “No?”
Erik shook his head.
Stefan held up the bolt and cleared his throat.
Erik glanced at him, and his eyes widened in surprise.
“I was amazed,” Stefan said, “at the damage, the lack of a single bolt could cause to a ship’s engine.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Erik said, stuttering.
“Yes, you do,” Stefan said, closing his fist around the bolt. “You were an able-bodied seaman on the USS Cyclops. She was lost in 1918. All hands missing. All except for you, you managed to slip away in Barbados when the ship stopped in for coal.”