Dead and Gone

by Angela M Hudson

  “Well, like what? We ate, we had dessert, and we had drinks.” She stopped, picking up on the melodic ripple of a piano. “Where’s that coming from?”

  “What?”

  “That music.”

  “Mirage.” He nodded to the Grand Hotel. “The bar in there.”

  “Can we go?” She jumped excitedly. “I love the piano!”

  “Yeah?” His face lit up, an idea coming to life that might just help him win her over again after disappointing her by declining the film offer. “Come on then.”

  Ali skipped along beside Sam, so much shorter than him but fitting to his side like she’d been modeled to his specifications. He caught a glimpse of their reflection as he opened the door, and smiled, wishing he’d told her how much he liked that dress on her.

  Ali, on the other hand, caught that guarded smile of his and went weak at the knees. No guy had ever made her feel physically weak, but sometimes Sam would do something, say something, or just smile, and her arms felt like jelly. No matter how mad she could ever be, if Sam came down in a pressed suit with his hair brushed back, all classy-hipster like he was tonight, she would forget why she was mad. She didn’t even care that he wasn’t a “movie kind of guy”.

  They sat at the bar and Sam ordered drinks, paying the barkeep before whispering to Ali that he’d be back.

  Assuming he went to the bathroom, Ali didn't watch Sam walk away. She didn’t see him slip a twenty to the pianist, who went on break. The pleasant burn of the strong drink warmed her arms and she closed her eyes to enjoy the soft sound of music behind her, drawing it deep into her soul.

  “Sounds pretty good, hey?” said a man beside her.

  Ali opened her eyes, about to smile, but it turned into a frown when she met face-to-face with the pianist—who had been sitting down playing only a second ago. He gave her a cheeky wink and sent her gaze to the new pianist with a tilt of his head.

  “Your friend’s pretty good,” he offered.

  “Yeah, I guess he is.” Ali rolled both hands out in question, shaking her smiling face at Sam. He just laughed, jerking his head to invite her over.

  “I didn't know you could play,” she remarked, placing their drinks on the coaster by the vase.

  “You could fill a well with what people don't know about me,” he reminded her, flashing a sweet grin.

  “Can I sit?”

  Sam continued playing, giving a gentle nod.

  Ali scooped her dress under her bottom and sat down beside him, shaking her head. Sam played unlike anyone she’d ever seen. The way his hands moved over the keys and produced a sound that touched her soul made her feel closer to him, maybe even a little bit in love with him, as if he himself had reached out with his bare hands and touched her inside.

  “How long have you played?”

  “All my life,” he said, barely restraining that cheeky grin. He knew what he was doing to Ali right now—knew how it stirred her—and he was enjoying every second. He might have lost points with the movie and the outfit tonight, but he doubled them in one hand with the piano card. “Do you play?” he asked.

  “No. I tried once but I’m not musical.”

  “You’re a writer,” he said. “That’s a skill many would give their piano hands for.”

  “Would you?”

  He nodded, smiling. “It would have made my mother proud.”

  “Would have?” Ali said, wondering if his mother was still around, since he always spoke of her in the past tense.

  “She passed away.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ali looked down at her lap.

  “It was a long time ago. Cancer.”

  “Mine too,” Ali said.

  “Really?”

  Ali nodded. “Breast cancer.”

  “Bowel cancer.”

  “Cancer sucks,” Ali remarked.

  “Yes.” Sam laughed to release the sadness. “It truly does.”

  After a moment, with the help of a few wines and the warmth of common ground between them, Ali felt safe to let herself get closer. “Hey, Sam?”

  He looked at Ali to prompt her question.

  She pushed up on her hands to bring her lips in line with his cheek and gently, very slowly, pressed a soft kiss there on the styled prickles. “Thanks.”

  “For what?” he asked, feeling the tingle of that kiss warm his entire body.

  “For showing me who you are.”

  Sam smiled, a little lost for words.

  The Ghost in the Turret

  Ali spent the entire day on the sofa, not feeling like working on her novel but consumed by it all the same, because the more she thought about it, the heavier the calcified rock of dread in her stomach became. Mel was right. Ali was falling in love with Sam, and if that was the case, and being that Sam was obviously innocent of all Grant’s accusations, Ali could not, in good conscience, release that book to the world. Even though it was fiction, there were threads of truth within the pages, and she would never want to hurt Sam that way—Sam, who would certainly read it. Sam, who had taken such good care of her while she was sick. Sam, who made her smile just by walking into the room these days. It was clear to Ali that the story needed to be rewritten, no matter how much work was involved. No story, no novel, was worth hurting Sam for.

  “You look lost.”

  Ali glanced up at Sam where he stood in the doorway between the foyer and the parlor. He looked worried.

  “It’s my book,” she said, readjusting her heavy-rimmed glasses on her nose.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Everything.”

  “Aw, can’t be that bad.” He moved into the room, bringing all that manly cologne and sexy energy with him. “It’s just the near-finished-novel blues. My mom used to get them.”

  “No, it’s not that, Sam.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I just need to go in a different direction, that’s all, and I’m dreading the work involved.”

  “Well, maybe I can help.” Sam walked past the sofa as if he meant to sit beside Ali, but then thought better of it and sat in the arm chair by the fire instead. “I majored in English at college.”

  “I’d like that.” Ali smiled. “But you can never read this version of the story.”

  “Why not? Am I in it?” he joked, never in a million years expecting Ali to nod. He slid forward on the seat, hands clasped between his knees, an eager grin across his lips. “I am, huh?”

  “I didn't mean to write you into it,” Ali pleaded, shrinking to about the size of a small goat. “When we first met, I thought you were the most arrogant jerk in the world, and then you just ended up being my villain.”

  “The villain?”

  “Yeah.” She bit her lip, unsure if she should confess the next bit. “And, see… I have very little control over my characters. I’m not one of those writers that can plot a story and follow it. My characters decide where to go and…”

  “And?” He grinned at the way her lip slipped between her teeth and how cute she looked in leggings and a plaid shirt, her hair a mess, knees tucked up to her chin.

  “And I wrote you into a sex scene.”

  Sam rocked back in his chair, slapping his thigh hard as he laughed. Ali had never heard such a bold laugh from Sam and didn't know he could be so open and honest. It made him look vulnerable in ways that made Ali wonder where this Sam had been.

  “So, was I any good—in this sex scene?” he asked.

  “Perfect, of course. All my characters are good in bed.”

  Sam laughed again. “Well, at least one of us around here is getting some.” A nervous hand brushed his hair back. “It’s only been about ten… no, almost eleven years for me.”

  “Holy cow!” Ali sat up straight. “I’ve been abstinent for five months, and it’s killing me.”

  “Months, hey?” He held a smile in place for a moment, his eyes small and sharp and warm. “So, who was he?”

  “His name was Steve. We dated for a year and then I found
out he was cheating on me, the dirty little rat. I had to go get tested for everything and, let me tell you, some of those tests are really unpleasant.”

  “But I take it you got the all clear?”

  “Yeah.” Ali sat back a bit, twisting the tasseled edge of the throw rug around her pinkie. “But it’s made me cautious of letting people in. Even casual, no-strings sex has been out of the question since then.”

  “At least you have an excuse.” Sam threaded his fingers together behind his head and leaned back in the chair, the smell of his cologne wafting across on the warm burn of the fire. “I’ve spent eleven years alone with no one to keep me warm at night except Mrs. Palmer and her five adult daughters.”

  “Mrs. Who?”

  Sam wiggled his fingers, opening his palm. “Mrs. Palmer.”

  When Ali got the joke, she practically spat her laughter across the room, covering her mouth to hide how twisted her face looked when she laughed that hard.

  “You laugh now,” Sam said with a coy grin on his face, “but if you had to go that long without action you’d start hanging out with Mr. Palmer.”

  “Why didn't you just go hook up with someone for a one-night stand?” Ali asked, breathless.

  “I couldn’t.” He pressed his mouth into a thin line, considering it for a moment before extending his answer. “I just didn't want to connect with anyone, if that makes sense.”

  Ali nodded. Having sex meant letting someone in. You couldn't lose yourself like that without forming some kind of connection. She knew people that could, but obviously Sam was like her in that department. She always wanted a second date or at least a phone call after.

  “Sex aside,” Ali confessed, “I think I miss having a chest to lay on.”

  “Yeah?” Sam asked, genuinely curious.

  “Yeah. Is that silly?”

  “No.” He smiled softly. “I think that’s pretty sweet, actually.”

  Ali wanted to tell him she thought about laying her head on his chest, but knew it was crossing that invisible line they never seemed to cross.

  An awkward moment of dead silence washed over the room. Sam wondered if she had been hinting at something, but he was too afraid to ask in case he was wrong and ruined everything.

  Instead, he jumped up from his chair and sat down beside her, close enough that Ali could reach out if she wanted him but not so close that it was obvious he wanted her to.

  “What if you did?” Ali said.

  “Did what?”

  “What if you made a connection with someone? Would you want to have sex with said person, or is that kind of relationship just not in the cards for you ever again?” she asked.

  Sam smiled, holding his arm out and opening his chest to her. She took the invitation without hesitation, and as her ear met his firm chest, she heard his heart beating and it mattered to her. For some reason, the fact that his heart was beating, and that she could hear it, mattered to her.

  For Sam, the feel of her warm hair under his chin and her breath along his arm stirred something inside of him that he was certain had died with his wife. He took a deep breath of her and exhaled into her hair, wrapping his arm loosely around her.

  “I’m still human, Ali,” he said in his deep, husky voice—Ali’s favorite voice. “I still need sex, love. It’s just been a very long time since I’ve realized that.”

  When Ali smiled into his chest and snuggled down a little, everything in her world felt perfect, as if for the first time. All the heartache over her cheating boyfriend, the failed book, the fact that her father died before she made it as a writer, and even the pain of losing her mother at just five years of age, it all just felt like it had been leading up to this. So few things in her life ever added up to much, but if all of that added up to this moment, she was okay with that.

  Little did she know, Sam was thinking the same thing—for the first time in fifteen years.

  * * *

  The house had been eerily silent all morning. It wasn’t until Ali’s characters stopped talking so loudly in her head that she finally realized she was alone. Sam took a few days off work after Thanksgiving, but people had started to ask questions. Even though neither of them had yet declared their feelings for each other—at least, nothing past a brush of the hand as they did the dishes, or sheepish smiles when they passed each other on the stairs—Ali knew Sam hadn’t wanted to return to work because he enjoyed being around her. However, he wouldn’t admit that to anyone else, so this morning he got up early and crept out of the house before Ali woke up, leaving a note on her bedroom door to say he’d be home at dinner time. Which is why she found it so odd to hear him come through the door at only three in the afternoon.

  She listened for a moment, and when she heard the front door close, hopped up from her cozy writing nook to greet him.

  “Miss me?” she joked, gliding down the stairs. Ali landed with a light thump in the foyer and watched as the turret door creaked to a close behind Sam. But he didn't answer.

  “Sam?” she called. “Is everything okay?” She wondered if he was in one of his moods again, and if so, what had set him off this time?

  Ali sighed, shaking her head, but as her eyes swept past the front door, her stomach dropped, noticing the driveway was empty. Sam’s car wasn’t there.

  Feeling suddenly very alone, she took off her glasses and pinned them to the nape of her shirt, walking cautiously into the turret. Whatever the thing that sometimes lingered in this house was, it had never taken on solid shape or form. It had never made footsteps. She was certain Sam was up there, and that he had a perfectly good explanation for having walked home.

  And yet Ali’s stomach was tight.

  She stood at the base of the iron stairs, seeing the light change up on the top floor as a shape shifted past the window, and a settling breath of relief calmed her nerves. She smiled, feeling silly. It was Sam. That movement was too solid, too real.

  “Sam,” she said, exasperated. She climbed the stairs, the iron clanking under her feet just as it had under Sam’s, feeling angry and yet relieved, ready to hit him the second she laid eyes on him.

  Even though Sam was just a few steps away, Ali couldn't help but glance down through the intricate iron pattern on each step, as though something might reach up between the gaps and grab her ankle. Someone had died just down there beneath her feet, drew their last breath hanging from a rope that ran almost the entire length of the turret. Surely that had to leave its mark on the world. It was enough to unnerve Ali and make her climb at a bit of a run. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but energy was real. Energy could linger on the mortal plain long after a person died. Science had proven that and now she wished she’d never read that article.

  The last few steps led to an open room, and Ali could see the shape up there disturbing the light. Her last glance down the spiral staircase revealed nothing but hardwood floors and the turret door closing itself, but though a horrid evil thing was not crawling after her feet, her breaths were still shallow, tight. The skin on her shoulders creeped over her bones, and as she reached the bright and airy library up top, with the curtains blowing around the wide open window, she felt both relief and a terrible sense of paralyzing fear.

  “Sam?” she said again to the room, which was round and laid floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves; there were no corners to hide in and no doors to exit through, and yet the only sign that a person had been in there was the smoke in the hearth, fighting its way out of the fireplace and filling the room.

  The bright sun went behind a cloud outside, leaving Ali colder than she was a second ago. She froze, half poised to call for Sam, and stood absolutely still, trying not to breathe.

  Slowly then, barely placing her weight down on the floorboards, she backed away and felt for the iron stair rail. The cool metal received her foot with a rickety groan as she lifted her other one off the top floor, knees shaking. Unsettling things lingered in this space, arousing her childhood fears as she turned and hurried down the steps, wis
hing she could shut her eyes or cover her neck.

  Reaching the ground floor, she ripped the turret door open, half expecting it to be locked, and moved so fast out of that house she tripped over the threshold and stumbled onto the portico, stopping dead there.

  Behind her, the door shifted in the gentle breeze, moving almost purposefully until it reached the frame and then latched to a close. Ali’s blood moved at a different pace to her heart, making her feel sick. She ran for the lawn, collapsing in a breathless heap on the grass, every cell in her body begging her not to turn a gaze to the turret window, but it was impossible not to.

  As Ali glanced back like a small, worried child, only a firmly shut window was there to mock her, as if everything she’d just seen had happened only in her mind.

  Her phone was out of her back pocket within two seconds, shaky fingers dialing for Sam.

  “Hey, I was just thinking about you,” he chirped.

  “Sam,” she said, chilled by the sound of her own spooked voice.

  “What is it?” Sam noticed too. “Did something happen?”

  “No, I’m okay. I just…” Ali’s arms felt warm again as the shock wore off. “I-I’m sorry. I was just writing a spooky scene and I got a little…”

  Sam laughed loudly, cutting her off. “You psyched yourself out.”

  “Yeah.” She laughed sheepishly.

  “Want me to come home?” he said, then lowered his voice a little. “I’ve been looking for an excuse all day.”

  Ali chuckled. “No, it’s okay. Unless you really want to. I’m probably just being silly.”

  “Did you see something, Ali?” Sam’s voice had taken on a more serious tone.

  “Um…” She glanced back at the closed window, certain it had been open just moments ago. “I’m not sure.”

  “I’ll come back then,” he said decisively. “Just… maybe wait out front—”

  “Already there.”

  “Okay.” His tone darkened with concern. “Sit tight and I’ll be there in ten, ’kay?”

  “’Kay.” Ali hung up the phone and sat down hugging her knees, trying to look as casual as possible. In her mind, as every scary second replayed, Ali tried to remember it all clearly so she could write it into a scene later, but the adrenaline in her system just kept making her want to get up and pace.