Dark Corners READY FOR PRC (7 page)

“Ella? I knew I’d see you again!”

I glanced into the elevator for the source of the voice, hoping it wasn’t just in my head. Relief filled me as my eyes rested on a real, flesh and blood person.  It took me a moment to recognize him though. I frowned out of habit. “Right . . . from the bar.”

“Yep, it’s me all right—what are you doing in the hospital?”

“Visiting,” I lied. It was none of his business what I was doing here.

“Well, then I’m lucky to catch you. I have a few moments, would you like to accompany me for coffee?”

Would I like to accompany him? Seriously, who speaks like that? Should I curtsey? “Thank you, but no. There are things I need to do today.” I hoped my excuse sounded more convincing to him than it did to me.

“Later then?”

I smiled tightly.  “Perhaps.”

“When will you be visiting again?”

“Next week, same time,” I said automatically, then mentally kicked myself.

The elevator door opened on the ground floor. Grant had obviously missed his stop, the strange persistent man. I stepped out and was slightly perplexed when he followed.

“Are you leaving too?”

“No, I didn’t want to hold the elevator while we finished our conversation.”

“What conversation? I’m pretty sure our small talk was over.”

“Ella, that was almost a joke,” he teased with his goofy lopsided grin.

“Who’s joking?  Have a nice day Grant.”

“That’s it? You’re leaving? You’re breaking my heart.”

I waved over my shoulder and walked off without looking back. My cab was already waiting. I needed to go to the grocery store, but I was drained from the social contact. Instead, I had it take me home. Thankfully the cabbie was aware of my no talking rule and we rode in silence. I promised myself I would shop the next day . . . do it “tomorrow.”  It was always tomorrow. Tomorrow I would do everything I had been avoiding. Oh, how I wished tomorrow would arrive.

Walking up to the prison I called home, I heard someone snarl, “Hold it in the right place, you stupid bitch.”

I looked over at my creepy neighbor, Mr. Sexton, yelling at his wife, who looked no more than 14 years old. I made eye contact with her for only a second and had a surge of sympathy. That second, however, seemed to cost her dearly. Mr. Sexton hit the flashlight out of the girl’s hand and shoved her towards the house.

“If you can’t do nothing right, go inside,” he screamed inches from her face, pushing her once more.  She lost her balance, fell to the ground.

I told myself to mind my own business and continued to walk towards my door.  I wanted to say something to make him leave that child alone, but it wasn’t my place. I wasn’t getting involved. The last thing I needed was a neighbor feud on top of everything else.

I was reaching my porch when I heard him yell, “Hey girlie!”

I kept walking.

“Hey, I’m talkin' to you.”

I turned and looked at him with undisguised disgust.  “What?”

“How do you like living in that big ol' house all alone?”

I had no idea how to respond so I walked in the house without responding.  I stood at the door for a moment gathering my thoughts. Maybe I would tell Detective Troy about Mr. Sexton—his frequent visits might actually prove useful.

Bang, bang, bang—

The door thudded behind me, making my heart stop. I opened the door and Mr. Sexton was standing so close to the screen his nose was almost touching it. I gripped the doorknob so I could hold it closed in case he tried to come in.

“I was talkin’ to you, girlie.”

“I thought it was pretty clear I was ignoring you.”

“Don’t get all high and mighty with me, you little bitch.”

“You’re not welcome on my property. Leave or I’ll call the cops.”

“I know things—I know what you did.”

“I seriously doubt whether you would know your ass from a hole in the ground.”

“Don’t think I can’t see what is going on here.”

Before he could continue, I shut the door in his face and locked it. Then I listened for him to leave. After a couple of minutes I heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs. I suddenly became aware that I’d been holding my breath and let it out with a gush.

I started towards the kitchen to make some tea when the phone rang. The shrill sound was ear piercing in the silent house and made every muscle in my body contract; obviously Mr. Sexton had left me a little jumpy. My voice shook when I answered the phone, which made me cringe at my own cowardliness, but no one was there. Some days were worse than others for the hang up calls. They always left me feeling very alone and vulnerable with only the house watching me.

Sometimes my mind took its own path and wondered if someone was calling to check that I was home. It was a thought I tried dismissed as fast as it came, but with each new call, it was increasingly difficult. Finding the most opportune time to place rodent bodies in my bed, perhaps. The memory made me feel sick.

As quickly as the urge for tea had come, it passed. Vodka seemed more my speed. I drank in the living room, in the dark, in silence, cursing the house, my life, and myself. Then I drifted back into a world of happy memories not caring if I got lost there forever.

Bit by bit, despite my continuing misgivings and bad dreams, Danny and I fell into a rhythm.  We made friends with the couple who owned the hardware store we were constantly in and out of because of our ongoing restorations—Susan and Doug Daniels, a very nice, normal couple around our age.. Before they moved to Montgomery, they’d lived in Seattle and worked for a software company. They moved here to start a family and be near their own.

Though the Daniels lived here and owned a business for the last five years all of us were considered outsiders by the locals. Having unfamiliar faces and being instantly labeled as "city" forged an instant connection between us. It wasn’t long before they became like family. They helped with the house in their spare time and we had dinner together weekly.

One day while Danny was with Doug at a hardware expo and Susan covered the store, I stayed home to finally do some writing. I’d been working on a new book before we moved, but since the move hadn’t written anything. It was the first time I ever had writer’s block and it drove me mad. I blamed it on being busy and settling in, trying not to acknowledge that I’d had no new ideas since I stepped foot in the house.

I unplugged the phone, so I wouldn’t be interrupted by the onslaught of hang up calls we had since moving in. I sat at my desk with Piper lying on my lap. Staring at the computer screen my mind was completely blank.

I grabbed my hard copy and settled down on the couch to read what I had last written, trying to get back into the story. As I read, my eyes became heavy and before I knew it I was napping. 

The sound of the front door opening woke me. Piper bolted awake too, barking frantically. She hopped off the couch, running to see who it was.

A low male voice said, “Hello Piper,” and she stopped barking. I assumed it was Danny, though why he was whispering was beyond me.   I thought about getting up to see him, but I knew if I did that my nap would be over. My tiredness won, I remained on the couch, eyes closed, hoping to recapture the comfortable sleep I had been enjoying.

Danny walked past the office, crumpling a paper bag, Piper’s quick steps right behind him. I was tempted to open my eyes, but something stopped me. A little voice inside my head whispered, “What if it’s not Danny? What if it’s someone breaking in? If they see you and you see them, they’ll have to kill you.”

I dismissed it as irrational.  Of course it was Danny; who else could it be? When Piper jumped back up on the couch with me I relaxed. Had it been a stranger she wouldn't have come back. I slowly drifted back to sleep.

Sometime later, the front door opened again, but this time it was followed by Danny gently waking me. “Hey you, I thought you were writing today.”

“I meant to,” I said, stretching “Where did you go?”

His brows pulled together in a line of concern. “The hardware expo. Remember?”

“I know that, I meant just now.”

“I’m not following you.”

“You came home earlier today.”

“No, I just got home.”

“Are you joking?”

“No… I just walked in the door.”

“I heard someone come in earlier; I thought it was you. It woke me up.”

Danny looked at me for a moment to see if I was serious, then he went and checked the house. Soon he came back into the study and shrugged.

“The door was locked when I got here. It must have been a dream.”

“It wasn’t a dream. I woke up.” Seeing the disbelief in his eyes I defended my position. “Piper started barking.”

“No one is here. Nothing is missing. It had to be a dream.”

“It wasn’t—I’m a hundred percent certain.”

“Then what happened?”

“I don’t know.”

I opened my eyes, staring at the ceiling of my silent house. Even with just Danny and Piper here the house had so much more energy to it. I should have insisted, made him listen to me. It was too late now, I sat up with a crick in my neck. It was dark outside and I had spilled my glass of vodka on the floor and myself. I was rubbing my neck, trying to soften the knot when a strange feeling hit me like a ton of bricks. Something was wrong, horribly wrong. I looked up quickly.

Bang! Something hit the house with tremendous force. It brought me to my feet. Through the window, I saw the porch swing rocking madly back and forth.  My heart thudded wildly in my chest; I stood frozen, unsure what to do. There was a knock on the door. My heart continued beating so loudly I was surprised I could hear anything. Cautiously I walked towards the door. I didn't want to open it.  My stomach fluttered.   I licked my lips, though my mouth was dry like it had been packed with cotton. I reached slowly for the knob, trying to find courage where none existed. With a deep breath I pulled the handle towards me.

“Susan!” I exhaled in relief.

“Yes . . .” she said, giving a weird look.  “Can we talk?”

“Were you just on the porch swing?”

“No . . .”

“Did you see someone leaving as you walked up?”

“No,” she shifted and looked over her shoulder. “The porch swing is moving.”

“Someone was here.”

“It was probably a cat.”

I looked at her with annoyance.  “Why are you here?”

“I came see if you’re all right.”

“I wish people would quit asking me that.”

“You reek of alcohol.” She sniffed the air in front of me.

I self-consciously wiped my hand over my shirt where I had spilled my drink, but gave her a defiant look.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

“Breakfast,” I lied.

“You should probably eat more than once a day. I’ll make you dinner.”