Heed the Angel

“Look, don’t buy the body spray,” the blond-haired man said, taking the bottle from the youth’s hand and putting it back on the display shelf.  The scent in question was supposed to make one extremely attractive, and considering the boy’s problem with finding a date to senior prom, he was enticed.

“My mom said I could spend as much as I wanted on prom,” he argued, unsure why this man was telling him not to buy it, especially if he was supposed to be a sales associate.  Then again, he wasn’t dressed like an employee, so he was all the more suspicious.  “If I want to buy the frickin’ cologne, I’ll buy it.  Especially if it’ll get me a date to the prom.”

“Julian, it’s not a good idea, really.”

“How in the hell do you know my name?”  Then thinking about it, he decided he didn’t care to know. He just wanted the body spray, so he grabbed another bottle and started toward the registers.  “Just leave me alone.”

The man sighed and ran in front of Julian, taking the product from his hand and walking back to the display.  “Will you just listen for once?  Seriously. If I’d known you were going to be such a pain in my ass, I would have asked for the next babe that day.”

“What in the world are you talking about?” Julian, at this point, was slightly freaked out but more pissed off at having his intended purchase thwarted.

The man turned his clear blue eyes on him; he then smirked and tousled Julian’s auburn hair.  “I’ve been with you since before you were born, kid.”

Julian smacked the man’s hand from his hair, torn between intrigue and revulsion.  “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

“Well someone’s not very observant.”

“Um…I think I’m just going to make my purchase and—”

“Die.”

“Excuse me?”

“Make your purchase and die,” the man repeated.  He crossed his arms and fixed his eyes on Julian’s.  “Look, kid, I’ve been with you since before you were born because I’m your guardian angel.  I’m probably breaking a million different rules and edicts and whatnot, but obviously you’re going to be difficult about this and since my job is to keep you living until your timely death, you haven’t left me with much choice.”

“What?  No, dude—I don’t—you know what, you need help.  That’s all there is to it.  You need some serious help.”  Reaching around the man, he grabbed another container of body spray and waved his other hand dismissively at him, scoffing.  “Angels.  Dude thinks I was born yesterday.”

The man blocked his path in an instant and said, “If you buy the cologne, the clerk is going to hit on you—”

“Perfect. Mostly chicks run the register so that could be my date to prom,” Julian said, lighting up and ideas for pick up lines running visibly behind his eyes.

“Will you listen?  You buy it, you get hit on, then you literally get hit on—by a car!”

“Crazy and dramatic.  You seriously need to go on some kind of medication, buddy. Thanks for the heads up about the chick.”  Julian walked past him, headed towards the registers, reading over the label of his soon to be purchase.

The man shook his head and carefully eyed the display.  Well, tomorrow he’d be up for reassignment.  He could pretty much guarantee that.

Wrapping his wings around him, his ordinary garb changed into his usual robes.  Staring a moment more at the display, he sighed.  He had done all he could do, hadn’t he?  He couldn’t help that his charge was thick-headed and single-minded.  Turning, he made his way invisibly to the front.

Sure enough, a panicked manager was on the phone calling for an ambulance as clerks and customers flocked to the window to see what had happened.  One in particular—a young, possibly college-aged male with long tresses—seemed especially distraught, informing a nearby coworker he had honestly thought the boy was cute and might be interested as mostly homosexual men bought that fragrance.  He hadn’t meant for him to be creeped out and run right in front of a speeding vehicle.

I warned him, the man thought, leaving the store and making his way to the site of the accident.  A man in black robes was prying Julian’s soul from the lifeless body.  Julian seemed to be giving him quite a time of things, not yet ready to let go.  But he didn’t have much of a choice with his brains leaking on the pavement.

“I tried to tell him,” the man said to the one in black.

“Yeah, I saw that,” he said, yanking on Julian’s hair and one of his arms now.  Julian’s soul was screaming and clinging desperately to his body, insisting there was a mistake and he still had to go to prom.  “Honestly, my bet was on him listening.”

“Loser had to collect?”

“Mhm.”

“That sucks.  You’ll be at this for a while it looks like.”

“Yeah, damn kid won’t give up.  Stubborn as hell.”

“Only child, lives with his mother.”

“That explains it;” the man in black dropped Julian for a moment, letting him cling to a dead corpse for a while.  “So what did you bet on?”

“That it would be a car…I was hoping for a Mercedes. Should’ve guessed it would be a truck.”  The man shook his head.  “Guess I get the brat due up for assignment tomorrow.”

“Another only child?”

“Oh, this one will be much worse.”

“Why’s that?”

“Her mom is a Kardashian.”

Ellen, Part 2

Ellen stood and swung her bag over a shoulder, rushing from the office. Once she was half-way across the school, Ellen burst inexplicably into tears. Something swelled in her chest and her brain raced to find a cause, stumbling in the tangles of her self-loathing. Her legs collapsed from under her and she found herself caught in the arms of Dev, Jeremy’s friend.

Dev had bronzed skin and was remarkably tall; basketball was as natural for him as breathing. He was a gangly small-town boy, relatively new to the suburban school.

“You don’t look too good, Ellen,” Dev said. “You want to go to the nurse?”

She shook her head. “No. It’ll pass.”

“Aren’t you concerned about a repeat?”

Again her head shook. “I’m dying anyway, Dev. You know it; you were there when I got the first results.”

“So it didn’t change?” he asked gently.

“We both knew it wasn’t going to change,” she cried angrily.

Dev helped her to a nearby bench. “What’s wrong?”

“My life is over, Dev!” she choked. “Everything I had, everything I was…it’s all just falling away…I can’t handle this and keeping it together. I spend all day thinking about it. About what would have happened if I had said no that night. Or if I had never gone for the test. Or if I had just taken the flu and gone on with my life…nothing would have changed.”

Dev hugged her firmly. “Ellen, nothing has to change. Your obsession is depriving you of everything you had. Not your condition.”

She pulled away from him. “That’s not true!” Her face burned from tears and anger.

“It is,” he said. “You think about everything that went wrong and led up to this, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re still here, and you still have a life to live.”

At first, all she could do was stare at him, her emotions evaporating as his words sank in. Then traitorous thoughts appeared, convincing her he was right. Why should she allow everything she had worked so arduously for slide from her grasp? It was hers already; why was she letting it go?

She collapsed into tears, slumping against Dev and welcoming his comforting embrace.

“Let it all go. Forget about Jeremy; forget about dying; come to terms with it and your emotions. Once you do, you’re golden.”

Ellen cried for what seemed to be the better part of an hour. The anger, fear, and pain of the past several months seemed to wash away from her. The tangles of doubt and self-hate started to unravel. As she cried, the journal slipped from her hands, landing softly at their feet.

When she quieted, Dev handed her a handkerchief from his back pocket. Smiling, he said, “I thought you might need one.”

“Why? Why help me?”

“I figured someone needed to remind the genius that everyone is dying. From the moment we’re born, the one destination we all have in common is the grave. That doesn’t stop any of the rest of us. Live life to the fullest and all that jazz. Remember? It was in your speech for presidency.”

“Yeah,” she admitted, smiling a little. “I remember.”

“Even though you’ve got HIV, with treatment you can live almost as full a life as you would have had.”

“Not really—”

“I said almost;” he smirked, brushing her chin with a knuckle. “Don’t smart me, I know what I’m talking about. I did my research…just so I could reassure you.”

“Really?” She hadn’t realized Dev cared that much; yet, here he was, dragging her screaming and crying from the depths of her funk.

“The point is,” he said, “there is no reason you shouldn’t keep being who you have been.”

She smiled warmly at him, feeling a glimmer of her old herself. “Thank you,” she said, squeezing his hand. Ellen picked up her journal. “There’s something I have to do.”

~*~

“I thought you didn’t want me to see this,” Mrs. Hardylen said, both eyebrows raised at the notebook being offered to her. “Change your mind already? It’s only been an hour or so.”

“Changes come quickly,” Ellen said. “It doesn’t matter if you see this or not. I’m going to be okay.”

Ellen, Part 1

Ellen stared at the mirror, pondering how it was possible someone else’s reflection could completely replace her own. The person staring back at her wasn’t the star student destined to be valedictorian, nor the class president, head of four clubs, and member of ten more. The person holding her gaze so gallingly steady was an HIV ridden horror, the disease practically crawling under her skin, draining the life from her eyes and the color from her limbs. But the answer she desperately avoided was that this wasn’t a different person.

It was her.

She didn’t have anything against people with HIV or AIDS. They were regular people, just with a shorter expiration date. When she had initially learned of her own contraction three months prior, her world had changed. She had thought, surely, the six-month result would be different. When it wasn’t, she felt as broken as when Jeremy had looked at her and knowingly shared his cursed disease.

Jeremy hadn’t contacted her since he had betrayed her trust, but she hadn’t been keen on tracking him down either. She hadn’t been keen on facing anyone, lately. Life didn’t seem like it could continue the way it had. Once you were doomed, what was the point in pretending nothing had changed?

“Ellen, sweet,” her mother called from the doorway, smartly dressed in a heather gray suit and her bob tucked perfectly behind her ears. “Unless you want to attend school in your nightgown, I suggest you change.”

Ellen stared a moment longer at the sickly image before turning to her mother. “What’s the point? In a few years, it won’t even matter.”

“Fifteen years is not a few. And even if it won’t matter then, I am not supporting you unless you attend and finish college.”

“Dad would support me.”

She scoffed. “Your father only supports us because the court requires it.”

“Maybe he’s changed,” Ellen said softly.

“People don’t just change over night, sweet.”

“I did.”

Her mother opened her mouth a couple of times as if to say something, but ultimately bit her lip and looked down the hall. Ellen turned back to the mirror, contemplating the day ahead. “I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes, mother,” she said, turning her face from the deceptive device before her, forcing a smile.

“I’ll have your breakfast ready then.”

As she disappeared, Ellen gazed a while into the horrible lie of a reflection. She could no longer stand the notion of what had become of her because she had thought Jeremy loved her.

“Stop lying to me!” she screeched. Ellen stormed across the room, grabbing a bottle of perfume from her dresser and throwing it at the mirror; both shattered in an excellent explosion of glass.

~*~

Her mother had informed the school counselor of the morning’s incident. She didn’t, as agreed, mention HIV. It was a custom within the family not to discuss unpleasant details that were no one else’s business and would eventually fade from everyone’s memory. Ellen’s case had nearly led to a divergence of practice as her mother wanted the school to know in case of emergencies; Ellen had convinced her to treat it as anything else.

That is how she found herself sinking into the overly soft couch in Mrs. Hardylen’s office.

Her counselor swiveled in the cushy chair to face her, smiling brightly as though the world could forget its worries so long as she believed the sun was shining.

“Your mother tells me you had an episode this morning,” she began. “She also tells me that you’ve been suffering bouts of depression lately and aren’t comfortable confiding in her.” Ellen sat stoically, staring through the cheery woman before her to her terribly malevolent imaginings. “She wanted me to talk to you about it. Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes.”

“Your teachers have noticed a difference in the last few months as well, Ellen. I’ve received messages about your slipping grades, lack of participation, and growing tendency to daydream in class,” Mrs. Hardylen said, genuine worry lacing her voice and causing a deep crease to appear between her brows. “Are you sure you don’t have something you wish to discuss?”

“I’m sure,” Ellen tartly said. She hated being treated like a child; if people could even begin to understand, she would gladly share. But that wasn’t the case.

“A few of your teachers also noticed you scribbling away sometimes in a journal…is that it?”

She clutched the pale blue hardback to her chest, wanting to protect her thoughts from prying, unworthy eyes. Her journal never questioned and understood everything. Within its covers she, the real Ellen, was safe. Every moment of doubt, anger, and overwhelming depression was carefully documented to relieve her from herself.

“May I go?”

“May I see the journal?” Mrs. Hardylen reached forth an open hand.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“You might be surprised,” she said, her hand still outstretched.

Ellen stared blankly back, her hands white and shaking with the ferocity of their grip. The journal was the last bit of herself she could hold onto and she didn’t want to relent it to anyone.

Mrs. Hardylen’s hand fell gently back onto her lap as she leaned back. “I guess that will be all for today.”

House Down the Hill, Part 9

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know, I can hear cars in the distance, and people talking about homework. The light through the floor is the soft gray of a cloudy day.

“Help!” I shout. “Please help!”

It crosses my mind many people will bolt the moment they hear the screaming, but I just need one person to call. Call 911, DPS, even the duty phone. I just need one person to call.

Somebody called. The ambulance, the makeshift ramp, being rushed to the hospital for x-rays and other health exams—it’s all a blur of sheer gratitude. My leg is broken in three places and Catherine chides me for running off. She calls my parents and lets them know I’m safe and alive because I ask her to. They won’t be happy with me, but they’ll hire the lawyer to reduce the charges to something minor and help coach me on handling the University conduct board.

The court requires me, among other things, to see a therapist. The psychiatrist tells me I had been going a bit crazy from the Diethylpropion. When I explain I had stopped taking the diet suppressant toward the end of the first week, the doctor merely says traces of the drug had likely stored in my fat bodies to be dispersed in the blood stream. I’m not sure I buy into his explanation; while it is possible, I feel like the hallucinations wouldn’t have been as powerful or lasted as long as they had. But who knows? By now, the drug is flushed from my system entirely. Though I try to accept this rationale and move on, I still feel some apprehension as I hobble past the house on my way to and from classes.

After that night, they re-boarded the window and posted “danger, no trespassing” signs on the yard. Since then, they have also erected a fence around the property. One of those cheap rent-a-fence things anyone can slip past if they really want. For weeks, it sat with its fence and its signs, quiet and still.

Today a bulldozer is sitting outside the house. Sometime between when I leave for class in the morning and come back in the afternoon, the house has been leveled. All that remains is rubble and the cement walls of the basement. I stand a while, watching the machine scoop up the chunks of wall and brick, dropping each load into a giant dumpster. In a couple more weeks, the hole where the basement had been will be completely hidden under dirt. But even before that, rumors of a shadow start circulating. The shadow is something big and angular, staring at the place where a house used to be. It makes me wonder if I hadn’t imagined it after all.

House Down the Hill, Part 8

Although the room is equally devoid of light, the kitchen seems brighter for its white counters and floors. There are three doors in the space, one leading outside, one shut tightly, and the third cracked open. I slink to the open one, careful not to touch it. I hold my breath as I shine my light through the crack, preparing to see stairs or, worse, some horribly disfigured face.

It’s a laundry room. A broken plastic basket sits on an old top loading washer. Just as I begin to breathe a little easier, I hear footsteps. Heavy, plodding footsteps. They’re coming from behind the closed door, the sound louder and more distinct with each passing moment. Any thoughts of proving my sanity are forgotten as I dash back through the living room, taking the shortest path to the—

Falling, and my own shrill voice filling my ears as something hard scrapes against my side and the streetlight outside disappears from my vision. I bat the carpet from around me and marvel at the hole above me. Then I remembered the woman last night had mentioned termites.

I flash the light around the room. It’s damp down here and smells of mold and mildew, but there are no chains or weapons or torture devices. There is no trace of blood or furniture of any kind. There isn’t even an echo of footsteps anymore. Just plain cement walls, rotted wood, a dusty old beast of a rug, and a single wooden door. I want to laugh and cry all at the same time. I’m going to live; there isn’t some psychopath waiting to kill me—if there was, I reason, he would have come back down stairs the moment I started screaming and falling. But all this didn’t explain what I had been hearing. I know I had heard it,but there wasn’t anything to prove it.

Discouraged but calm, I decide it’s time to go back, shower, and sleep. I roll around onto my knees and pain immediately shoots up through my right leg. My second attempt, I shift my leg to put less pressure and weight on it and excruciating pain seizes my entire body.

“It’s okay, Suze,” I tell myself aloud, taking the bag from my shoulders and starting to sift through it. “You’ll just call…or you won’t call 911.”

In all my planning, I have failed to remember my cell phone. I panic, realizing it isn’t yet one in the morning and I’m trapped, immobile in a house no one wants to go near. I start screaming for help, hoping there are yet one or two stragglers from late night excursions who might help me or at least call the duty phone. After a while, I realize it’s futile to waste my voice until morning. I spend my time trying to stand up. I even scoot to a wall, grimacing and biting my lip until my mouth fills with a strong coppery fluid. With much pain and effort, I find a way to my good foot and hobble to the door.

For a moment, I think I might be able to at least make it to the window. Then I see the narrow staircase. Not only is it about as wide as I am, but the stairs are steep and my left leg already feels like giving out on me. The thought of sitting down and going up backwards crosses my mind, but the stairs aren’t stone. Not only am I unsure if I could even use my arms to help push me up each step with as narrow as it is, but I can’t tell if the stairs are sturdy all the way up. The last thing I want to be is stuck in a staircase in a house no one will go near.

The February chill seeps into the basement, quickly permeating my skin. I pull my black sweater tighter around me, but I’m starting to shiver. Slumping carefully against a wall, I pull the heavy carpet over me. It may be grimy, but at least it’s something.

House Down the Hill, Part 7

While Catherine is away at class—which I opt not to attend today—I prepare a bag of supplies for that night. I find a hammer and a heavy monkey wrench in the toolkit in my car. After searching a while, I’m able to locate the flashlight in my backseat as well. It all goes into a little shoulder bag with my camera. Back in my room, it takes me some time to find a suitable outfit for the night, something all in black. It makes me feel like I’m in a movie, which makes the whole ordeal seem less real. I know it very much is real and my sanity relies on proving it. I’m not sure I can take the rest of the semester waking up to someone screaming bloody murder all night or someone pounding on the door again. I’m not crazy and I’m going to prove it.

My heart is racing the entire time I’m lying in bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Catherine is snoring tonight; I think she’s coming down with a bug. I’m waiting for the screaming to start because it means the figure is inside the house and not outside my door. It starts about 12:30, as shrill as ever. I jump from my bed, swing the bag over my shoulder and head out. Shaking and scared or not, this ends tonight.

The walk to the house is eerie. Clouds hide the moon and stars while streetlights cast the trees as long spindly shadows. There is no one around, no parties raging on at the fraternities further down the hill, and no one shouting or playing on any of the athletic fields nearby. It seems even the residents of the apartment building have all turned in early, leaving the night desolate, with no one else to hear the screaming and pleading coming from within those mismatched walls.

All of the stories seem to suggest the psychopath uses the back and side doors. I’m hoping that means the front will be clear. With my size and the height of the windows, it also makes the most sense if I’m breaking in—uh, investigating. The screams are so loud standing on the porch, I want to cover my ears and cower in my fort. But I can’t; not if I want to prove to everyone I’m not insane.

I take out the hammer and wait for the scream to be loudest before swinging at the plywood. It takes quite a while, but eventually the wood gives way to a dark and dusty room. The hammer returns to my bag and I replace it in my hands with the flashlight and monkey wrench. My flashlight illuminates the sparsely furnished place. A few wooden chairs dot the room, all of them tipped over. An old faded carpet sits heavy in the middle of the floor, the tassels still a beige color showing through here and there from underneath the grime. There’s an end table with the remains of a lamp near a doorway with a fridge visible just beyond.

The screaming hasn’t yet stopped, so I hope if I’m less than graceful, my noise will be covered up. I swing a leg over the window sill, steadying myself as I bring the other one over and twist to face the interior. A shadow appears in the corner of my eye, causing me to almost fall backward through the window. I shine my flashlight in that direction, only to find a rocking chair with a coat draped over the back. Sighing, I slowly slip into the room.

The screaming sounds like it’s coming from the basement. As soon as I realize this, it stops. My heart is pounding in my chest and I’m sure the shadowy figure can hear it. He hears it and he’ll come bounding up the stairs any moment now to silence it. I push the thought out of my mind and begin to move towards the kitchen, walking along the outside of the room. It always seems the stairs to the basement are in the kitchen, especially in horror movies.

House Down the Hill, Part 6

 “Suze,” Catherine calls kindly. “Did you call the duty phone?”

I crawl out from under my bed and slowly creep into the living room, peeping around the corner. The man standing there is vaguely familiar, and nowhere nearly as tall or angular as the shadow I had seen. He has a kind face though it is currently etched with concern. A woman is entering behind him; I don’t recognize her, though she’s shorter than him. Both of them are in pajamas and look a little less than awake.

Catherine closes the door behind them as the man asks, “You called about screaming?”

I nod and Catherine stares at me. “It woke me up. Really loud, shrill screaming.” I’m holding onto the wall, still hiding behind the corner, but it doesn’t help steady me any; if anything, I’m shaking more violently now, wondering where the shadow disappeared to and if they’ve seen it.

“You said something about calling for help, too.”

“Yes. The screaming stopped when I called you…and then it started again, but someone was crying for help. They-they sounded terrified.”

“Why don’t you sit down?” the woman suggests. “It’s ok,” she insists.

Cautiously, afraid the shadow will return any second, I move towards the couch in the opposite corner. Catherine brings me a glass of water and sits beside me, rubbing my back.

“You said it was coming from down the hill?” he asks.

I nod, taking another swallow of water. “This isn’t the first time, either.”

“How long have you been hearing screaming?”

“The past couple nights. Tonight was the first time someone was screaming anything coherent.”

The man and woman nod. Catherine squeezes my hand and offers me a tissue. “Something else happened, though,” she says to me. “Why didn’t you want me to answer the door, Suze?”

I try to swallow the lump in my throat. It sounds crazy, even in my own head, but maybe it isn’t. If they had seen it retreating, they would know I’m not losing it.

“Something was at the door. It was banging so loudly. I was scared it was going to break in.”

They look at each other and the woman leans forward. “We didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. We didn’t hear anything either.”

“The screaming stopped before the banging.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just a nightmare?” she asks kindly.

I shake my head. “I was wide awake.”

“I don’t know how to explain what you heard and saw,” she says, choosing her words carefully. I suppose they train them in those sorts of things. “No one else has complained about screaming or loud noises out here the past couple nights. And the house you’re hearing them come from is condemned. It’s unsafe to enter. Mostly due to termite damage. But there’s nothing in that house.”

“You don’t know what I heard.”

She nods, her lips pressed as though biting back what she really wanted to say. “No, I don’t know what you heard. Because of that, I can’t do much for you right now, especially as the house is condemned and I’m not permitted to search it.”

There’s a harsh rapping on the door and I jump, splashing some of the water from the glass. Catherine takes it and sets it on the counter as the woman stands up to answer the door. One of the officers from the Department of Public Safety steps in and speaks quietly with her. I can make out some mention of the house down the hill and loud noises. The officer makes some remark about ghost stories and demolition. The woman nods and closes the door behind the officer, wishing him a goodnight.

“Why did he go?” I inquire as she sits back down.

“There isn’t anything we can do tonight. He’s going to check out the house more regularly on rounds and see if there’s anything suspicious going on. But we really can’t do much more right now.”

“What about what I heard?”

“If you’d like, we can set up a time to talk tomorrow and see if we can’t do something to make you feel better,” she suggests.

“I’m not crazy.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

I shake my head and sit back on the couch. They aren’t going to do anything. Stupid bureaucracy has their hands tied and they can’t do anything, except offer me a counseling session or two and diagnose me as something I’m not. I’m fat and find my body absolutely disgusting, but I’m not crazy.

“Thank you for coming out. I’m sorry I woke you up,” I say, staring down at my hands.

Catherine sees them out, having some conversation I don’t stick around to hear. I grab my laptop and earbuds again and barricade myself in the fort beneath my bed. When Catherine comes in, I ignore her, turning the volume on my laptop up until she finally surrenders and crawls back under her blankets. A sinking feeling in my stomach tells me she thinks I’m going crazy and the screaming will continue anew the next night only to make me seem more so.

The house is taunting me. I’m not sure what I ever did to it other than not cross the street to pass it; whatever it is, that place has it in for me. If no one else is going to do something about it, I suppose that leaves me.

House Down the Hill, Part 5

That night, the screaming wakes me again. I double over, covering my ears, trying to ignore it. When that doesn’t work, I recreate my fort and retreat there. There are other noises mixed in with the screams tonight. Slamming doors, chains being dragged, the loud revving of a chain saw. All of it only serves to make the voice more shrill and panicked.

I call the Student Advisor on Duty, my hand shaking so much I almost select the wrong contact. The phone is pressed hard to my ear so I can hear the ringing on the other end.

“Hi. This is the CGR Duty Phone, how may I help you?” a tired but perky voice says on the other end.

“I’m in Campbell Apartments number 4 and I keep hearing screaming.”

“Screaming? Do you know where it’s coming from?” I can hear the guy on the other side moving around and the jingle of keys.

“I think it’s coming from that house.”

“What house?”

“The one next door. The creepy looking one.” The screams subside a moment and I hold my breath, hoping that would be all for tonight.

“Oh God! Oh God! Somebody help me! Help! Somebody help!” I jump and bump my head on the bottom of the bed.

“Please hurry, someone’s calling for help now,” I say, almost in tears. “Please.”

“I’ll be right over,” he says, a little more immediacy in his tone.

The words become intermingled in the shrill screams. Across the room, I can see Catherine still soundly asleep in her bed and I envy her. I envy her and am appalled at the same time. How can she not hear this?

Just as quickly as the screaming began, it stops. My mind instantly fills with images of torture and death. I have no idea what is going on, but I only hope it stops. That someone is able to do something and it stops.

There’s a knock at the door. I scramble from my hiding place, relieved the SA has finally arrived, but stop dead as I turn the corner. Stepping back a few feet, I cover my mouth, muffling the scream dying to escape my throat. An angular shadow takes up the window behind the screen. It knocks again, more insistent, and is breathing so loudly I clamp my hand tighter over my mouth to mute my cries. The shadow pounds on the door and starts rattling the door handle.

My heart is racing as I run to shake Catherine awake, shushing her as she comes to, mumbling complaints. I’m practically hysterical at this point. I can hear the pounding and rattling still and I fear the next sound will be the glass shattering. “What’s going—?”

“Shhh-shh-shh.” I’m shaking so much my voice is unsteady.

The pounding stops. I pull Catherine’s hand, trying to lead her to my little fort of safety. Fear and worry are etched across her face. There’s more knocking at the door, this time more polite. Catherine looks at me a moment before slipping from bed and heading out of the room.

“No, don’t answer that,” I whisper after her. “Don’t answer that. Catherine, don’t. Please don’t.”

A moment later I hear the door open.

House Down the Hill, Part 4

The next night I wake to screaming again, the voice shrill and sounding so close. It stops the moment I wake. Just as I’m ready to dismiss it as another nightmare and fall back asleep, it starts again, sounding more distant but more insistent and terrified. I jump out of bed and go to wake Catherine.

“Catherine,” I whisper. “Catherine, wake up.”

She murmurs something under her breath and rolls over. I shake her shoulder roughly, the screaming continuing incessantly. Catherine sits up groggily asking, “What’s the matter,” and the noise stops. I’m sure I look a bit insane, spinning around, trying to remember from which direction it came.

“What’s going on, Suze?”

“You didn’t hear it?” I ask, turning the blinds in the window to peer outside.

“Hear what?” she asks confusedly, rubbing her eyes.

I stare at her, open mouthed and wide eyed. “The screaming. It was so…so loud.”

“What screaming?”

“You really didn’t hear it?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Suze.”

I sigh and close the blinds again. “I’m sorry I woke you up, Cat.”

“You okay?” she asks, already lying down again.

I nod and leave for a drink of water. I’m tempted to grab some ice cream, but I resist. I raise the blinds in the living room, peering outside for some source of the screaming. It couldn’t have been from too far away, not with as loud as it had been.

BAM!

I jump at the sound and my eyes go immediately to the house down the hill. It sits there, almost like it’s staring up at me; it looks quiet and empty, innocent. And yet there’s something about it that’s laughing at me, daring me to accuse it of being up to no good.

Closing the blinds, I set up camp on the couch with another Charlie Chaplin flick. After half an hour, it becomes obvious things won’t be like the night before. The house is in my mind and it feels like its peering in through the window, mocking my attempt to put it from my thoughts. I grab some earbuds and clear out the storage containers from under my bed, building a fort of sorts. It’s hidden from the windows and, though something sinister still seems to be lurking about, it’s enough to allow me to fall asleep to the movie.

The next day, Catherine asks if I had woken her up the night before. I apologize for it as I start replacing things under my bed. She gives me a strange look and then says, “I couldn’t remember if it had been a dream or not.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, hoping the conversation will end.

“Are you sleeping all right?”

I nod and ask her if she wants eggs for breakfast. “I’m craving eggs.”

“Sure,” she says carefully. I can feel her eyes watching me all the way to the kitchen. “You know, I thought I was dreaming.”

The pan is melting a pat of butter. I find myself concentrating really hard on what I’m doing. If I have to walk past that place today, I don’t want last night on my mind, not with as mocking as it had seemed.

“You know you can talk to me about it, whatever it is, right?”

“Yeah, of course.” The eggs are cooking beautifully, and I feel tempted to make three or four for myself instead of two with a slice of toast. Though this would have cued me to take a pill, I have already missed so many doses from an insanely busy schedule I have stopped taking them. Instead, I’m developing and relying on my own willpower.

Catherine thanks me for her eggs a short while later and doesn’t pursue further conversation. I can tell she’s worried though; her eyes on my back are as unsettling as the house’s intense presence the night before. I take comfort in knowing hers is in concern and not menace.

House Down the Hill, Part 3

By early February, I finally feel empowered to make some lifestyle changes and it starts with a prescription. I still choose not to exercise at the rec center, but I make a more concerted effort to walk to and from the main campus as much as possible instead of going in the morning and chilling out there until the end of the day when I have group meetings. The walking is a good start, I figure, and it’s not too demanding.

The only real downside is going past that heinous house more often. It’s worst in the afternoons when most people are in class or elsewhere on campus. Despite the abundance of sunlight, there’s something cold and eerie about the place, its vibe spreading like a high tide over the sidewalk. I tell myself it’s just my imagination; the hair raising on the back of my neck and the strange gust of wind as I cross the driveway are the stories psyching me out. At those times, I feel as though there are eyes, somewhere behind those boarded up windows and condemned walls, watching me and waiting. For what, I’m unsure. But I shrug it off the next moment, putting it from my mind, and am soon entering the safety of my apartment.

“Catherine. Catherine!” I sit bolt upright in bed to silence. My heart is pounding and my breath sounds loud enough to wake the neighbors. Across the room, Catherine is mostly hidden beneath her giant pink and white comforter, the colors and swirling design distinct despite the darkness. I jump out of bed and stumble, my legs shaking under me. She’s breathing softly and nothing appears to be out of the ordinary.

I wait a moment longer. Still she sleeps as soundly as ever. My mouth is dry and my body is still shaking from the shrill screaming I think I heard. For a moment, I believe I might be able to go to bed again, but it’s like a bad dream that persists; the screaming continues, with no obvious cause, the moment I close my eyes.

Pouring myself a glass of water in the kitchen, I sit at my desk to browse the Internet, hoping to find some TV show interesting enough to take my mind off of the nightmare and mundane enough to lull me into a new slumber. I’m proud of myself as I scroll through the list of recommended shows in the comedy genre. I’m already more empowered to turn down my vices—namely unnecessary sweets.

I choose something with Charlie Chaplin and, an hour later, I’m falling asleep on the couch.

House Down the Hill, Part 2

Much of why I chose to live in Campbell this year relates back to my personal health and weight. The three-block walk to and from campus everyday—which strangely felt like it was uphill both ways—would help me to start exercising more regularly. That was the general hope at least. To say I am unhappy with my body is an understatement. I can fill an entire mirror and spend the better half of an hour pointing out every single flaw: the pores on my nose are too big; my back rolls are saggy and catch my shirt to streak it with sweat when the room is humid; my stomach sags down over my jeans, even if the top is supposed to sit at my waist…I can go on for a while. And the whole time this is happening, I only feel more and more self-conscious and wish for an easy fix.

One crisp winter day, I am standing in the bathroom mirror cringing at the sorry state of my flabby upper arms when my roommate comes in, crossing her legs tightly as she propels herself forward in an awkward sort of dance.

“Sorry,” she says, fumbling with the button of her jeans.

I slip out of the bathroom as she yanks her pants down and sits on the toilet. The door blocks the hissing sound when I close it behind me. Deciding I have spent too long today poking at my disgustingness, I rummage through the closet, searching for a sweater from my sister. It’s two sizes too big and never fails to make me feel three sizes smaller than I am. Considering the torture my mind puts me through, it’s a small consolation to not feel as huge for a little while.

Slipping into the heather gray sweater, I leave the bedroom to plop down on the couch with my health science textbook. I cross a leg under me before setting it on the ground, berating myself for thinking I might be smaller than I am and could curl up on the small sofa. Soon, Catherine comes into the main room and starts browsing the selection in the cabinet over the sink.

“Want anything?” she asks, her back to me as she moves to inspect the snack cupboard.

“No thanks,” I reply, though the taste of cool, creamy ice cream melts over my tongue and fills my mouth.

She shrugs and takes out the box of granola and a bag of craisins. “How’s your day, Suze?”

“So-so.” I know she saw me prodding my collection of fatty stores, and it’s not a new sight to her. She usually makes small efforts here and there to share a healthy snack or to try a new workout class with her; the latter is the more humiliating of the two and the reason I continue to avoid going to work out.

“You know, my sister was struggling to lose weight for years. She was practically addicted to chocolate cake.” She’s mixing the granola and craisins into some plain yogurt from the fridge. “They put her on this medicine to help suppress her appetite. She’s lost a lot of weight because of it. She was telling me about it the other day when she called about her wedding.”

My textbook is trying to tell me something about sleep and healthy stress, but I can’t help but perk an ear to what she’s saying. Having tried just about every diet plan in existence since I was 12, I’m skeptical, though it doesn’t stop me being hopeful.

Catherine adds, “I could get more information if you’re interested.”

“I don’t know,” I admit; did I really want to put myself through another round of miracle fixes? Just because it worked for her sister…everyone is different, after all.

“Well, let me know what you decide,” Catherine says, to which I nod and assure her I will.

She glides to the window and opens the blinds a moment before lowering them again. “God that place is hideous. I wish they would just tear it down already.” Catherine takes her yogurt and walks to the bedroom. Before disappearing around the corner, she smiles at me. At first I think she might say something, her lips even part in preparation. Then she disappears into the bedroom.

House Down the Hill, Part 1

There’s an old condemned house across from the football field. It’s the kind of house most people cross the street to walk past. It looks rather small with the original part made of brick and yellow painted plaster, three stone steps leading to a plain wooden door. And then there’s the extension—white, wood siding with a white door and unpainted, dilapidated wood steps. The white door is stained brown and copper along the bottom as if dirt—or, if you believe the rumors, blood—had been splashed there from some commotion. The windows are boarded up with tagged plywood; any glass they used to hold is long gone, and most of the frames are broken.

The students, especially those living in the apartments just up the hill from there, call it Murder House. It wasn’t until I had decided to live in Campbell Apartments I even knew of the house’s existence. It is so far south of the main campus, with only the apartments and athletic fields nearby. Not particularly interested in sports, I never had a reason to go out that way before move-in. Then again, to say I was completely ignorant of Murder House might be inaccurate; perhaps I just hadn’t bothered paying attention to the stories people weaved of the place before classes. Stories of local high schoolers disappearing in there, shouting from deep inside in the middle of the night, or the front door opening as people passed by just after sundown. Some claim to have seen a shadowy, angular figure wander back into the house before sunrise, carrying something that occasionally resembled a meat cleaver, a machete, or even a chainsaw—their vague recounts bringing to mind something that belonged in cheap American anime.

I tell myself and my friends I don’t believe the stories. I am a mature, logical person and ghost tales are for younger audiences. That doesn’t stop my pace quickening and the hair on the back of my neck rising whenever I pass the house, though. At times, I have to chide my overactive imagination for giving into the rumors, especially at night when my roommate opens the blinds and the house seems just outside our door.

My roommate often complains to company of the house and how it ruins an otherwise lovely view. Our friends agree and busy themselves with sharing the same stories everyone seems to know. They posture for hours whether the tales are true and contemplate holding a stakeout some weekend night in our living room. The stakeout, of course, never happens, but they seem to enjoy entertaining the possibility. None of them really believe the stories, but it’s one of those things people latch onto and half hope is true. If any of it was true, after all, the University surely would have done something by now as it is their property. That, and they sort of promise our parents and guardians to provide a safe learning environment. Allowing a psychopath to live on campus does not exactly qualify as keeping students safe.

Four Nights in Paris, Part 6

Mother was aflutter when I called asking for her advice. Despite her excitement, she warned me to be careful and not to keep my expectations too high. I shrugged it off, convincing myself she was just being a mother and worrying after me.

The day passed so slowly and I was nearly unable to conceal my irritation. I constantly checked my phone and my watch, hoping the time would have flown by in some great leap since last I looked. Instead, the seconds crept by, hardly seeming to move. By the time it was six, I could hardly contain myself. I was sure Lani would be on time, gleefully hoping she had been as excited and anxious. Maybe she had been unable to enjoy the museums due to her excitement, bouncing from one to the next in an elated fervor.

At two until six, I arrived at the bar, taking a seat on one of the stools and ordering water. The petite bartender was back tonight, and she was joined by a tall blonde; the taller one took a note from by the cash register and made her way towards me. “Vous vous appelez Matt?” she asked.

“Oui,” I replied, confused.

“Connaissez-vous une femme…euh, Lani?” she asked, glancing at the folded paper in her hands.

“Oui.”

“Cette note est pour vous.” She laid the paper before me and left.

I regarded the note warily, suspicious of what it could say. The worst raced through my mind: hospitalization, death, sudden departure, injury. My heart was pounding loudly in my chest and my hand began to shake as I unfolded the note.

Dearest Matt,

I apologize for my absence. I will not be able to make it to dinner with you tonight. I know I said I would, but I can’t. You think I deserve something better but I really don’t. And even if I did, I don’t deserve you. I picked you because you were young and handsome. But I didn’t expect you to be so sweet and vulnerable.

I’m no good for you. I don’t deserve the kindness or the honesty you’ve shown me. You’re the first man to buy me a gift or a drink and not expect sex to follow. And you’re the first man to ever tell me he respected me and wanted to treat me right. For that, thank you.

But you deserve better than me. I told you, I’m used to short things. It’s easier that way, less messy. I can’t give you what you want. That is why I can’t come to dinner. If I had come, you’d be wasting time with me, when, in a few months, if not a few weeks, I know you’d be bored and see me for what I really am.

The woman you’re looking for is out there somewhere and she will give you all the love you deserve. I’m sorry I can’t be her.

Lani

P.S. Don’t think on sad things, Matt. This is Paris after all.

I stared at the note for a long while, reading and re-reading the words she had written. It was a ruse; it had to be. But as the clock struck seven, I began to accept it wasn’t. I ordered a whiskey and downed it immediately. Then I ordered for a refill. Screw my one drink limit. So what if I’d kept it for nearly four years now. I should have listened to my mother and controlled my wishful thinking. Even before that, I should have trusted myself and not entertained her flirting.

And yet, when I closed my eyes, I could feel her lips on mine, or her hand gently squeezing my own, and I knew those had been real. Those had been sincere.

I read the last paragraph over and over again. I eventually wandered to the front desk, hoping to locate Lani so I could maybe talk sense into her. After all, I wanted to know who had told her she wasn’t good enough. Who had said she couldn’t be the one to love me?

After providing some monetary incentive, the desk assistant told me no one named Lani had stayed at the hotel in the last week. She repeated this multiple times before I finally conceded and left for my room. There I paced along the foot of the bed, poring over her letter and muttering theories to myself. I wanted to explain away the pain. How was it possible to feel so hurt over someone I barely knew? How had I been so blind to the signs warning me to run the other way? Most importantly, I wanted to know why she had left. If she had stayed, who knew what could have happened. For all we knew, she very well might have been the one.

But that’s one thing I would never have the satisfaction of knowing.

Four Nights in Paris, Part 5

The little tan box sat on the low table before me beside two empty glasses and a bottle of wine. I’d woken up feeling elated. Lani had visited my dreams; we were lying in bed, cuddling and talking. Every now and then she would giggle in her bird-like way. The sound of her voice would coax me to laugh with her.

My associate even noted my lighter mood, making it seem peculiar—though I was certain it wasn’t. The real estate agent seemed heartened as well, though it was difficult to determine if that was because of me or some other factor. He entertained my wanting to stop at a shop on our trek to the second site. I felt the compulsion to make a purchase.

Lani entered—in what appeared to be the same black dress that hugged her every curve—about half an hour after she had shown up the past couple nights; I had started to worry she wasn’t coming. For a moment she searched, almost as though uncertain and perhaps a bit insecure. She folded an arm across her stomach and latched the hand to her other arm, craning her neck as she glanced around the space.

I stood, smiling and gesturing for her to join me. She smiled and dropped her arm, joining me.

“Do you like wine?” I asked, picking up the bottle.

She smiled kindly; “I haven’t had it very often, but I like it well enough.”

Handing her a glass, I smiled at her. That feeling of elation I awoke with was returning and warming my body. Lani had worn through my defenses and I wanted to know her better.

“This is for you,” I said, offering her the box. My heart was racing and I hoped she liked it.

“What is it?” she asked, setting her drink on the table and taking the box in her hands. She examined it as if expecting some sort of trick.

“Open it.”

Slowly, she cracked open the lid. Her eyes darted up at me before returning to the box. “It’s beautiful,” Lani breathed.

I couldn’t stop the smile spreading across my face as she gingerly lifted the silver necklace from the box. The charm was a double heart, one of which was encrusted in emeralds; ‘Paris’ was inscribed on the back. “I saw it and thought you might like it.”

“You shouldn’t have,” she said unconvincingly, her eyes fixed on the charm.

“I thought you should have something nice to remember Paris by.”

She laid the necklace back in the box and found my eyes. “Thank you. No one’s ever bought me something that nice before.”

I was thrilled by the compliment; she kept glancing between me and the box as if expecting one or both of us to disappear in a cloud of smoke.

“Why?”

“What do you mean?” She confused me and I doubted for a moment that I’d done the right thing. I knew gifts were a tricky thing with some feeling obligated to return the favor. But I had hoped she wouldn’t be that sort of person.

“Why did you give me this?”

I swallowed hard, debating how honest I should be with her. Then the memory of Danielle’s lack of honesty surfaced. “I like you, Lani. I—I don’t know why, but I like you and I want to get to know you better.”

She nodded, “I like you, too, Matt. You’re a sweet guy.” She giggled a little, adding, “I knew you weren’t the stuffy type.” Lani drank half her wine and crossed the distance between us to kiss my cheek.

My cheeks burned hot and I couldn’t help smiling. Then her hand turned my face up towards hers and she softly kissed my lips.  Again our lips met briefly, and yet the act was charged with so much energy. In a moment she was sitting across my lap, wrapped in my arms, as she pulled my face towards her. Her lips were soft and her hot breath seemed to come progressively faster.

I pulled away from her, suddenly struck by how inappropriate a setting the bar was for this, but also starkly reminded of the days when I used to believe making out meant nothing at all. But it did mean something and I didn’t want to cheapen her kisses by indulging until it led to where feelings really could be hurt quickly.

“Is something wrong?” she asked worriedly, her breathing gradually returning to normal. “Didn’t you like it?”

“Yes. Yes, of course I liked it,” I said, brushing her hair over her shoulder.

“Then what was wrong?”

“I just—” How could I explain to her what was going on in my mind? How did one explain having hurt numerous girls over short-lived flings and not valuing them enough? “I respect you and like you too much.”

“Aren’t you supposed to want to kiss people you like?” she asked, her eyes searching my face, her brow furrowed and lips parted.

“Yes, you are. But…I don’t know how to explain this.” My eyes scanned the room, hoping the words would come to my rescue. “I don’t want you to think I’m just using you because you’re beautiful. I want you to feel special and cared for, and I can’t do that until I get to know you better.”

Lani’s face softened again and a bemused smile curled her lips. “Matt, neither of us is going to be here forever.” Her fingers ran through my hair.

“We can find ways around that. I mean, there are cell phones and laptops and all sorts of technology anymore. We can spend what time we have together here and then figure the rest out from there,” I reasoned, hoping I wasn’t sounding too cheesy or, worse, desperate.

“So explore my body and get to know that part of me,” she said, gazing up at me from under her eyelashes. Lani started to pull my face towards hers again before I removed her hand from the back of my head and gently sat it in her lap.

“Lani, I want to get to know you before that,” I said slowly. “I want to earn your trust first. I want you to feel safe and like you matter.”

“I’m used to short things, Matt,” she said, diverting her gaze. “It would be just like everyone else. We could pretend if that made you feel better.”

I shook my head. “Lani, you deserve better than that.” When she didn’t say anything, I decided I might as well go for it. “Lani, would do me the honor of joining me for dinner tomorrow night?”

She didn’t say anything for a long while. Then she looked up at me and asked, “What time?”

“Six P.M. sound all right? We could meet here if you wanted.”

She nodded, slowly standing up. “Sure, Matt. That sounds really nice.”

“Great;” I couldn’t stop smiling. I would have to call Mother for suggestions as to where to take her. It would need to be nice but I didn’t want it to be ritzy; somewhere down-to-earth with excellent Parisian cuisine. “I’ll see you tomorrow at six, then,” I said, kissing her hand.

Lani smiled at me, though it was more sad than happy. “Sweet dreams,” she said, sitting in her seat and picking up her glass of wine again.

Four Nights in Paris, Part 4

Lani gently squeezed my knee. “I get it, you have to work. But you really should take a day to enjoy yourself. At least half a day.”

“We’ll see.” I watched as she removed her hand, feeling a bit lonely from the lack of touch and wanting to ask for it back. It had been some time since I’d welcomed the touch of a woman. After Danielle, the thought of being touched repulsed me. It had for several years. But I’d been told that’s common when you have an STI scare. I wasn’t sure if it was stranger to welcome the touch of a woman again or to welcome the company of this girl so much like my ex. “Why did you come back tonight?”

Lani cocked her head to the side, her eyes searching my face as if suspecting it was a trick question of some sort. “I said I would, didn’t I? Why is that so surprising to you?”

I scratched the back of my head, grimacing. “It’s just…you remind me of a girl I used to know.”

“What was she like?” Lani rested her chin on her hand.

My eyes focused on a point behind the bar though my mind drifted away to those three years of college. Danielle with her strawberry blond hair and freckled, pale skin; she laughed at something funny, a musical quality to her voice. Even when she spoke it sounded like she was singing. During the good times anyway. The harmonies sounded more dissonant after the truth had been revealed.

“She was unique. Pretty, liked to laugh, didn’t take a whole lot seriously it didn’t seem.” I sighed, images of her face contorted in anger flooding my mind. She hadn’t liked when I’d demanded why she hadn’t told me; she seemed to think that was a no brainer and reminded me she had never promised to be monogamous.

“What changed?” Lani asked, her voice sounding distant.

Images of Danielle happy and playful came back; she was running down a hill with her arms flailing or spinning in wide circles down a sidewalk, looking back to smile at me. “She liked being a free spirit, and she felt being with one person was too restricting.”

I shook the images from my mind, turning towards Lani. She wrapped her hand around mine and squeezed. A sad smile crossed my lips and I gently squeezed her hand in return. Her mouth opened as though she was going to say something and then thought better of it.

“Cheer up, Matt. She didn’t know what she was letting go.” She smiled kindly at me and I swore I saw something lonely in her as well; as though she could relate. Before I could ask, she said, “Let’s not think on sad things. We’re in Paris after all.”

My lips cracked into a smile. She was right. All of that was so far away, in both time and place; it did no good to think on it now. And there before me was this beautiful woman, so caring and sympathetic. I felt I had been unfair to her, and yet she wanted to know about me; if she had only been interested in sex and booze, I couldn’t help thinking she wouldn’t have asked about the girl she made me remember.

Suddenly I was struck by how late it must have been. Checking my watch, I said, “I’m really sorry, Lani, but I need to go for the night.”

She nodded, a hint of disappointment in her eyes, but a smile curling her lips. “I thought you might say that.” Lani squeezed my hand again before letting it go.

“Will I see you tomorrow night?”

Her smile brightened; “I don’t see why not.”

I stood and wished her a good night. As I started to leave, I felt her shapely arms wrap around me and her face press into the space between my shoulder blades. Part of me wanted to turn around and give her a proper hug, but I feared already I was growing too smitten; not properly returning the hug was my way of proving I wasn’t too attached yet. I placed my arms over hers and whispered, “Thank you.”

Lani pulled away slowly, gently rubbing my back for a moment. “Sweet dreams.”