by Alex Gates
“Callie,” I repeated, now from the hallway.
“Hi,” she said. Her voice was small and quiet, but it belonged to her. It was her voice—unassuming and fragile and shy, at least until you awoke her hidden passions—then, it turned powerful.
I gripped the doorframe to keep from wavering as the building swayed and shifted around me. Words eluded me for the first time ever. Even if I had something to say, I doubted I could have worked sound around the massive lump in my throat.
I’d come home to her charred corpse seven years ago. How was it possible that she stood in the same room as me now? How had she found me? Did she know about Mel, how I’d lost our daughter? Is that why she’d come here? Was this even real? Was she real?
Stepping forward carefully, so as not to frighten her ghost away, I approached my dead wife. With only a dozen inches separating us, I stopped, lifting a quivering hand to touch her bare arm and confirm her presence.
Tears broke, sliding down my cheeks as my fingers ran over her cool skin. “I swear,” I said, “I was just making a sandwich and cutting onions.” I brushed a tear away. “That’s it. Oh, and I’m also really allergic to Xander’s condo. I think… I think it’s because he doesn’t have a pet. You know me. I need dander to function.”
Callie stood stone-still. Her arms dangled at her thighs, and her gray tongue pressed against her upper lip. I don’t think she blinked once.
“Hey,” I said, raising my hand to her cheek. “Are you okay?”
I wanted nothing more than to hug and kiss her, but something kept me from getting any closer. She just stood there like a wax sculpture—inhuman and unreal.
“Say something.”
And like wax exposed to extreme heat, her skin began to melt. It dripped down her body and puddled at her feet. After a few seconds, nothing of her face remained but charred skull and lush hair. A centipede crawled from the depths of her left eye socket and back into her nose cavity.
I staggered away from her, gasping for air. That feeling of drowning in the frozen depths of darkness had returned.
The skin that had melted off her bones and puddled at her feet now rippled and moved. It built upward into a column four feet tall. Features formed to resemble my daughter—Mel. I had witnessed her death, though. I had watched Medea slit her throat and spill her blood onto the wheel-traced floor. Still, despite what I’d lived through—was living through—Mel stood beside the bones of my wife, like a zombie. Her skin was pallid and decayed. A wet, rancid stench wafted around them.
“Join us,” they said in unison.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No.”
I retreated, but my foot didn’t land on the floor—on anything solid. Teetering, as if falling from a cliff’s edge, I glanced over my shoulder and saw a black void descending into oblivion.
“Embrace the shadows,” they said together. “Embrace the darkness.”
In a blurred dash, they covered the few feet that separated us. Both of them stood inches from me as I struggled not to fall off the edge of reality. I could smell the death that lived within them, hot in my nostrils.
Callie leaned her blackened skull forward. Through rotted teeth, she stuck out her gray tongue and licked my face. It was as dry as sandpaper. I cringed, unable to avoid it by stepping back any further. My dead wife gripped me with bony fingers, pulling me into her and shoving her dry tongue into my mouth. It tasted like frozen shit. Moving on pure reflex, I shoved her away from me. But she didn’t budge.
I did.
Unable to maintain my balance from the momentous push, I fell into the dark chasm, their laughter chasing after me. I tried to drown out their maniacal sound with my screams, but I had no breath to exhale. After careening through the void for seconds, hours, years, I slammed into something solid and—
Woke up on Xander’s hardwood floor, panting and sweating. A couple kernels of popcorn were stuck to my face. Scrambling to a seated position, I rested against the base of the couch and stared at the closed front door, wiping the buttery detritus from my cheeks. The locks remained in place, untouched.
“Holy fuck,” I wheezed, running my hands through my hair.
After a few minutes of allowing my body to settle, I stood, trotting to the front door to peek through the eye hole. Nothing was out there. No one. Turning my back so it rested against the door, I slid down and sat on the hardwood, staring across the living space. Serendipity continued to play. In fact, I hadn’t even missed that much of the movie.
Glancing at the floor in front of me, something caught my attention—something that reflected the overhead lights in the foyer. Crawling forward on my hands and knees, I noticed two sets of wet footprints.
One of them, for sure, belonged to a child.
2
At the sight of the foot puddles, I fled from Xander’s condo without bothering to clean my beer and popcorn mess or tighten my robe or shut the front door. Maybe I overreacted a little, but damned if I lingered in that place after what I’d just experienced.
Usually, I’m not the most jittery or easily startled person in the world. Do I have my moments? Yes. But who doesn’t? I can barely sit through a horror film without lowering the pillow from my face—especially if it features a cabin in the middle of nowhere. I’m terrified of cabins, both in movies and in real life. Apart from those nightmarish log chambers, real-life monsters and horrors are different. I can make my own terrible decisions in real life without having to suffer through the horrific ones made by intoxicated, hormonal teenagers—though, some might say I’m not too far off from that.
To be honest with you, I didn’t flee the scene out of fear. I’d already experienced the scary part, when my dead wife and daughter had appeared before me. I just couldn’t remain there—not even to lay on the couch and watch Kate Beckinsale date the wrong guy for way too long. The wet footprints that had seeped from my dream and appeared in my real-life nightmare drove me away. Was I supposed to mop up the mess and plop back on the couch to finish my movie, forgetting anything had ever happened?
I hightailed my skinny ass out of there because I hadn’t known what else to do. Well, first, let me choose my words better and paint a clearer picture. I didn’t run or flee. I flung the locks and crab-walked out the front door, twisting back onto hands and knees in the hallway. From there, I climbed to a wobbly stand and stumbled down the stairs to the lobby like an employee high on the Mary Jane, trying to hide their paranoia from their employer.
Outside the complex, the sun shined, and not a cloud marred the winter sky. And that right there, ladies and gentlemen—that blue sky in late November—is why people flock to California. Yes, I hear you. Earning a hundred thousand dollars per year still puts most households around the poverty level in this great state. And for those of you right-winged, red-blooded republicans out there, good luck having your voice heard beneath the blue ocean. Also, if you enjoy wetter, greener climates—well, maybe don’t cross that Oregon border. But in Cali, baby, at least you’re in a drought-stricken, too-expensive, vanity-obsessed state that’s always sunny. It makes even the darkest moments seem a little brighter. The sun, that is… not the people. They’re the worst.
The complex spilled onto a side street that led directly to J Street after a twenty-yard walk. Once on J Street, I saw the 7-11 that I’d purchased my beer and popcorn from earlier. I definitely had zero need to go back there. The butter and carbonation combination had resulted in a series of terrible events that I didn’t plan to replicate. So, I meandered in the opposite direction, heading east. I walked past a spa, a Chinese restaurant, and… a sushi restaurant.
Hot damn!
Xander lived next to a sushi restaurant? Good luck getting me to find a new place to live now. I freaking loved sushi.
Before me, I could just make the roof of the State Capitol standing against the late morning, early afternoon horizon. I squinted into the bright sky. The November sun sat smack-dab in the middle of a baby-blue ocean. Curious about the actual t
ime of day, I patted my robe pockets and realized I’d forgotten my loaner phone, along with any money, identification, and shoes—which sucked, because a litany of bars and breweries appeared around me, and I doubted they’d allow a bathrobe-wearing, barefoot bum into their establishments.
I sighed, vibrating my lips with the exhaled breath. Life really sucks, do you know that? Here I was—a widower, a father who lost his child, an Acolyte who lost his magic, a homeowner who lost his home, a man without his own clothes or guns or money or cell phone. If there was a rock bottom, I think my carcass lay scattered in a bloody pulp across it.
I had to return to the cursed apartment to grab my belongings—and, of course, to steal more of Xander’s money from his not-so-secret secret stash.
Or, I thought, I could beg for money.
I could find some cardboard and a black marker and write something like need money for booze not food. Maybe some good-hearted realist would spare enough change for me to buy another six-pack and waste the rest of the morning and afternoon without having to go back into the apartment. I chuckled. When had I ever been so lucky in the past seven years?
On the positive side, I looked the part of your standard bum. My hair stood in thick tufts, my eyes were bloodshot, and the skin beneath them had swollen and darkened like a hungover frat boy. My reddish beard grew down my neck and up my cheeks in an unruly, pubic manner. I wore a bathrobe and nothing else—not even shoes. Come on. If anyone had the right look for begging, I qualified for that fashion show.
As I ambled further away from the apartment and past a BevMo!, a sheriff’s vehicle cruised passed me. The deputy’s head turned toward me as he passed, and I stopped to wave at him with both my middle fingers. I’d had a pretty terrible morning, and the six-pack had maybe clouded my judgment. Also, I had this thing with authority where I couldn’t help but question and test it. A second later, those dreaded red and blue lights flashed on, and he screeched his tires to flip around in the middle of the downtown street. Super illegal, by the way. You can’t just make a U-turn willy-nilly. Did he really think he was above the law just because he may have spotted a suspect wanted for multiple counts of murder?
Ridiculous.
My stomach tightened to the size of a walnut, and bats fluttered around its emptiness. Before I made the decision as to whether I wanted to evade capture or talk my way out of an inevitable arrest, his cruiser bounced over the curb and onto the sidewalk. He parked halfway on the street, halfway on the cement. With his car still running, he jumped out, leaving his door wide open—which reminded me, I left Xander’s apartment door wide open. Probably should have closed it. Oops.
“Officer,” I said, out of breath, “you’re just in time. An old lady stole all my clothes and took off that way.”
The police officer reminded me of a serial killer—all gangly limbs and no torso and a face that sunk into itself. He halted his advance about five feet away, with one hand on his electrocution zapper and the other extended forward to keep me at an acceptable distance—you know, in case I was rabid or something. He licked his lips and blinked quite a lot, not helping his serial killer vibe.
I leaned in, thinking he was either trying to communicate with me telepathically or seduce me. Neither was working out too well. He was too young for me, anyway—about twenty. I liked my men old and wrinkly in the important areas and green in the bank account.
After I watched the sun set and then rise again, he finally barked orders at me. “Sit down. Hands on your head.”
I glanced at the cement. Shadows from the buildings and the small trees graced the heels of my feet. “But it looks cold and dirty,” I said, holding up the hem of my white robe. “And I just had this dry-cleaned.”
His fingers wrapped around the butt of the zapper.
I know it’s called a stun gun, but zapper is so much more fun to say. And when he zaps me, maybe the big comic book onomatopoeias will pop up over my head in an electric thought bubble. ZAP!
“Sir, have a seat.”
I rolled my eyes into the back of my head like a rebellious teenager. I even muttered something under my breath that the officer wouldn’t be able to understand—it made me feel tough, though, like I had a voice. Also, much like an angsty teen, after my show of insolence, I obeyed the officer. Sitting with my knees bent upward, I allowed the robe to slide down my thighs and split apart, so Officer Buzzkill could get a nice view of my down-under.
“Officer,” I said, adjusting my outfit to a more modest position, “did I catch you peeking? I might have to report sexual harassment back to your superior. It’s Officer Chester, right? Tell me, Mr. Molester, am I being arrested? If not, I think I have the right to go on my merry-ass way. I know you’re dying to cavity search me, but I think that violates more than just my constitutional rights.”
“Are you Joseph Hunter?” the officer asked.
I narrowed my eyes and scrunched my nose and glanced at the sky. “That name doesn’t sound familiar. I’m Junter. Hoseph Junter.”
Another cruiser appeared, lights flashing. It bounced onto the curb beside the first officer’s vehicle. Apparently, law enforcement didn’t respect the unspoken laws of sidewalk courtesy and the walking needs of their average civilian. The car wobbled back and forth as Shaquille O'Neal stepped out. Okay, maybe not the Shaquille O’Neal, but someone close enough to fit the description. He stood about twenty feet tall and gave elephants a run for their money when it came to bulk.
“Reynolds,” the new man said, his voice too high-pitched to fit his body. “What’s...” He trailed off when he saw me.
I grinned. “Hi. It’s a real pleasure to meet you. Listen, I have this terrible itch right between my legs. You mind getting it for me?” I gestured to the serial killer with a nod. “Your buddy, Officer… what did you say? Reynolds? He won’t let me lower my hands from my head—which is ironic, considering that it’s my head that itches.”
“This him?” the rhino asked the baby-faced officer, only to answer his own question. “It looks like him.”
“I get that a lot, guys,” I said, shuffling back a few inches and straightening my legs. Sitting on cement was terrible for the lumbar. “I have one of those faces. Most people say I look like Justin Timberlake, back when he had those frosted tips. Some say Paul Walker. In all honesty, I think I resemble Ana de Armas. It’s the cheek bones, if you ask me.”
“What do you think?” Reynolds asked the rhinoceros.
The new guy shrugged his mountainous shoulders and shook his tractor-tire head. “You have identification on you, sir?” he asked me.
“Just my balls. Are you guys still using that method to identify people? Mine are as mossy as river rocks—and believe it or not, just as green.” I was tempted to allow my robe to fall open again, but I resisted. “My doctor says it’s normal in gonorrhea cases, so I’m not too worried about it.”
Officer Serial Killer shifted his stance, and I finally placed him.
“Fucking shit hole,” I said. “Boo Radley, that’s who he looks like. Still, very much a serial killer thing going on, but more on the good guy serial killer side.” I squinted at him. “Like Dexter.”
The rhinoceros guffawed, elbowing his brother in blue. “He’s not wrong, Reynolds.”
Boo Radley—I mean Boo Reynolds—scowled at me, not liking that I’d tickled his buddy’s funny bone. Not contributing to the conversation about his rail-thin features or milk-pale skin, he discussed the department’s policies with the other officer about detaining me on suspicion and bringing me into the station for an intense grilling.
Bored of their conversation, I glanced to the side and saw a man hurrying toward us. He had gold hair—not blonde or brown, but gold—and he moved like he’d had a long, rough night with a group of well-endowed men. His hurried gait must have alerted both of the officers. They both looked up from their conversation and regarded the stranger, now about ten yards away.
“Keep moving along,” the rhino said in his odd tenor.
“What the fuck?” I glanced at the officers, then back at my assailant. “You see that? Can I take my hands off my head now?”
Reynolds pulled his gun—not the zapper, but the big boy. Rhino removed his baton. I guess their respective sizes determined their weapon choices. Or maybe just their desire to keep a job.
“Get on the ground! Now!” Shaq commanded, his voice suddenly thirteen octaves scarier.
“Me?” I asked.
The stranger had his back to us. He didn’t move or breathe. He stood there like carved stone.
First quiz of the day. Make sure you’re sitting for this. Do you have paper and pencil? Perfect. And no, that’s not the question you’ll be graded on, smart-ass. It’s people like you that forced me to avoid classrooms like the plague. But that’s neither here nor there. Back to the quiz.
Do I:
A) Shove the gold-haired asshole in the back, despite the cops standing right there with their weapons drawn.
B) Let the boys take care of this incident and pretend it never happened?
Alright. Time’s up. Do you have your answer sheet filled out? I’m going to trust you to grade your own quiz, so no cheating. Scout’s honor.
If you selected answer A, give yourself a hundred percent and a loving pat on the back. You’re correct! If you selected answer, B, you were wrong. Take a shot or finish your drink as punishment.
I shoved the shit out of that statuesque waste of space. But, much like Callie in my dream, he didn’t budge. And, much like me in my dream, I staggered backwards instead, deciding in that second that I needed to hit the gym one of these days. Then—and get this freakiness—this dude twisted at the waist like a Barbie figurine. His feet still pointed away from me and the officers, but his eyes stared right into my soul. Not once did he blink, and when he spoke, his lips didn’t even move. They remained closed, like a ventriloquist.