Sam: A Novel Of Suspense (36 page)

“Hello?”

The
faint voice came again through the phone, came from somewhere far away, urgent
and fast: “help me, he’s bleeding on the rug…”

The
phone dropped from his hand, swung on the tangled cord and banged into the
wall, swishing back and forth like his own senility. Out of the earpiece
continued the now familiar susurration, growing louder: “He’s bleeding on the
rug…”

Matti’s
voice drifted down the stairs and oozed into the shadows, providing a
complementary backing vocal to the refrain: “…bleeding on the rug…”

It
was confusion that he felt first, not terror. An innate need to rationalize
what he was experiencing. And so he stood in the darkness of the kitchen, more
boxes around him, listening to both voices chant about the blood on the rug,
asking himself just what in the hell was going on? There’s always a logical
explanation for strange events, he knew. Looking around, though, all he could
see was a nearly-empty kitchen. There weren’t any answers jumping out at him.
Figure
it out later. Right now you need to call for help.

Cell
phone, he thought, where was his cell phone? He’d been packing up books in the
living room before going to bed and was pretty sure it was in his jacket on the
table. Was it still charged, he wondered, or should he just cut across the lawn
to his neighbor’s house and wake them up, tell them to call an ambulance and
maybe even some men in white coats?

No,
he couldn’t leave Matti, not yet anyway. He could feel that in his gut, that
need to protect her, that need to make sure she was okay. For her sake, of
course, but also for his. Because if anything were to happen to her…

As
he passed the front door, moving through the foyer that separated the kitchen
from the living room, he saw the Dust Buster sitting on a taped-up box and
picked it up. He didn’t know why exactly, it just felt right. Having some kind
of weapon in his hand gave him a sense of advantage, even if it was a false
one, and led him to believe he could still keep control of the situation.

That
is, until he stepped into the living room and saw the figure standing near the
sofa, bleeding on the rug.

 Dane
froze, his heart kicking into overdrive as his body went slick with sweat and
his tongue dried up into cardboard.

The
lanky figure was shrouded by shadows, its shoulders hunched forward with poor
posture, its hair wispy and short. Judging by the lack of effeminate curves, it
was a man. Whoever he was he was holding a hand to his head, his body swaying
ever so slightly, as if a light breeze might blow him over. There was something
decrepit about him, but at the same time…strangely formidable.

He’s
here to hurt Matti, Dane thought. Have to protect Matti.

The
table in question was off to his right, equal distance from both him and the
other man. His jacket lay in a heap on top of it, his cell phone in the front
pocket. If he tried to run for it, and the man lunged after him, they’d meet at
the same time. Dane hadn’t been in a fight since high school, wasn’t even sure
he remembered how to defend himself? Still, he knew he’d fight for Matti, come
what may.

Using
the Dust Buster to mimic a gun, his heart now trying to rip through his chest,
he said, “Whatever you want, you won’t get it. I’ve called the cops. They’re on
their way right now. And I’m holding a gun here. So I’m giving you five seconds
to get out of my house and never come back. Got me?”

Calling
Dane’s bluff, the man staggered forward on stick legs, still holding his head,
forcing Dane to backpedal toward the kitchen, the vacuum thrust out in front of
him like a pistol.

“I
said get out!”

The
man ignored the warning and kept advancing, walking with the forced gait of
someone severely arthritic, moving into a small patch of moonlight that spilled
through a gap in the curtains. The pale blue light swam up his frame until he
was solidly illuminated.

Tall.
Elderly. Decrepit. Bloody.

Hurt.

Gunshot,
Dane realized. Dear God, the old man had been shot in the head, was gushing
blood like a ruptured water main through the gnarled fingers he held there. As
the blood pooled on the carpet, it hit the shadows and spread out like oil
rising from the earth.

Similarly,
the Dust Buster hit the floor, shattered, and bounced away.

Dane’s
back found the wall behind him and stopped him short, his mouth open in a
scream that could not find its voice. He didn’t know what scared him more, that
the man was in his home, or that he was still alive somehow. He’d heard stories
of people taking a bullet to the head and living, but this wound looked too
severe for such a miracle.

From
upstairs, Matti continued to whisper, “He’s bleeding on the rug on the rug…”

The
wounded man drew closer, leaving a trail of gore behind him, until finally he
loomed over Dane. His eyes were cloudy and dry, his skin cracked and flaky and
sallow, his teeth angled all wrong as if he’d shoved them into his own gums
without regard to symmetry. A sad smile spread across his face, denoting a
pathos Dane couldn’t place.

And
that was the curious bit. Judging by the slight smile and aged frame, there was
nothing actually malicious about him, not that Dane could tell anyway. If
anything, the man looked…content. Not content with the gunshot wound,
but…somehow…content with his role as a victim. As if he’d accepted it with a
que
sera
attitude. He looked the way Dane’s grandpa looked when he would sit
alone in a lawn chair at the family get-togethers while everyone else played
horseshoes and went swimming. Content to be forgotten, and occasionally
patronized, because inside he was truly just happy to be watching his legacy,
just happy to be there as a part of it all.

The
bleeding man before Dane registered such contentment behind the gore. The sad
eyes, the friendly smile, the non-threatening physique.

Dane
swallowed hard and asked, “Are you okay? You’re bleeding. I…my wife…I need to
call an ambulance.”

With
some care, the figure took his hand away from the hole in his head, blood
rushing to freedom, and pointed at a photo on the ground to Dane’s right. It
was leaning against the wall, along with some others, waiting to be packed up.
Without looking, Dane knew which one it was, having placed it there not long
ago. It showed him and Matti standing in the living room—this very room where I
stand cornered by a dying man, he realized—wearing matching San Diego Chargers
sweatshirts. Matti’s mother had taken it during last year’s playoffs.

“Who…who
shot you? Let me help you. My phone is—”

Dane
headed to the table but the old man moved in front of him, blocking his path. A
burst of adrenaline rushed through Dane, but again, the man did not come off as
threatening, just insistent.

“My
phone…”

Shaking
his head but still smiling, the man pointed to another of the photos, this one
resting on the ground near Dane’s foot, where Matti had left it while packing.
Dane looked at it, made out what it was even in the darkness.

“What?
The photo? It’s…it’s Matti and me at Christmas. I don’t understand and I don’t
have time—”

As
emphatically as the hurt man could muster, he pointed to the photo again, blood
running off his hand onto the carpet, urging Dane to take another look.

“Okay.”
Dane bent down and picked up the photo. Even in the dim moonlight, the picture
was as he remembered it, a jovial snapshot of the two of them holding up pairs
of socks, taken with the timer setting on the camera. As he stared at it,
remembering the day fondly, a sallow-skinned finger dotted with blood tapped
the glass frame.

Dane
ignored it. “I need my phone.”

Again,
the finger tapped the glass, tapped it in the same spot repeatedly, leaving a
coppery fingerprint. Looking at the bloodied man, Dane shook his head to show
his confusion.

Still
smiling contentedly, the man wiped the blood off the picture’s glass covering
and tapped it again.

The
fingerprint appeared again in the same spot.

The
man pushed the picture closer to Dane’s face, as if to say, look harder.

“This
is crazy.” Confused and scared, Dane tore the back off the frame and pulled the
photo out, careful not to rip it. It was a good memory and he wanted to keep it
safe, especially in light of the memories he’d be losing a day from now as he
handed the house keys over to the new owners. He remembered that Christmas
morning well, the way the tree looked in the living room, the way both he and
Matti felt that the house was really beginning to feel like home. He remembered
pulling out the socks and remarking how much they both needed them, laughing
that they were officially grownups now for thinking that way.

Where
the bloody fingerprint had been on the glass, there was a lensflare in the
photo.

The
finger tapped it.

“That?
The camera…it’s old, it does that—”

The
bloody finger rose to the first photo again, the one with Dane and Matti in
football sweatshirts, and pressed against it.

Dane
bent and picked up the photo. Again, he found the familiar lens flare that was
common in many of their photos. He’d meant to buy a new camera, but had never
found the time. He put the photo back. Another photo near it, taken in the
kitchen on Thanksgiving, also had the lens flare.

But
the one under it did not. It was taken at Disneyland with the same camera, and
was flawless.

Intent
to prove whatever point he was out to prove, the man pointed toward the foyer.
A multi-picture frame still hung near the front door, Dane knew, containing
similar photos; it hadn’t been packed yet. It had been due to get boxed up when
their need to feel each other had gotten the better of them, drawing them to
the stairs where they made love.

“I
have to help my wife, I can’t—”

The
old man shook his head no and pointed to the foyer again.

Hastily,
Dane went to the frame in the foyer and looked at it. Even in the darkness of
the room, he could see the man reflected in the glass behind him, his face
still a mass of red, pointing to one of the photos in the upper corner. It was
taken in the kitchen as well, a picture of Dane drinking a Budweiser.

Lens
flare.

Beneath
it, a photo taken outside a nightclub.

No
flare

Picture
in the bedroom.

Lens
flare.

From
upstairs, Matti’s voice filled the foyer, quick as ever and still hushed. “He’s
bleeding on the rug on the rug on the rug.” Then, without breaking tempo, the
refrain changed, causing Dane to spin and look up the stairs. “I shot him. I
didn’t mean to, the gun just went off. Please hurry, I love him. He’s bleeding
on the rug…”

The
timbre was clearly Matti, but it sounded as if she were trying to mimic
someone. She was good at mimicking people. She did it at parties sometimes. She
could do Holly Go lightly like it was nobody’s business. But this was not a
game. This was something else.

What
spread through Dane next was not terror, or fear, or panic, or even more
confusion, as he would have expected, but disbelief. The sum of all the parts
was falling into place, painting a picture he found hard to digest. After all,
he did not believe in ghosts

The
gun-shot man, seeing Dane’s wheels spinning, began to nod approvingly. He
closed his eyes as his smile perked up at the sides, his blood now hitting the
hardwood floor of the foyer. And with the sadness in his eyes suddenly making
sense to Dane, he put a hand to Dane’s shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly.

The
touch was very faint, Dane noticed, like someone rubbing a feather on the spot.
But it was frigidly cold, almost to the point of burning.

The
old man followed this with a wave, a telltale wave that said, it’s been a
pleasure. And with that, turned and headed through the entryway into the living
room.

The
squeeze, the wave, the turn…it was an unmistakable universal gesture.

Saying
goodbye, Dane realized. He’s saying goodbye.

The
lights flickered once and came on. Dane rushed into the living room, but the
man was gone, just like that, taking the bloodstains with him. The carpet was
as clean as it had been before he’d gone to bed.

Everything
was silent.

Nothing
was out of place. The boxes, the trash bags, the stacks of items waiting to be
packed, all were exactly as they’d left them. He sat on a box of books he’d
packed just a few hours earlier, full of Matti’s horror novels, and looked
around him for answers. Did all that really just happen? He felt light headed,
a little dizzy. Was what he’d just seen real, or was he imagining things?

He
touched the box, thinking of the contents inside, and what he’d just
experienced. Horror. The supernatural. Ghosts. Such bullshit. Matti joked that
she read them for insurance—Ed Lee and Jack Ketchum and a bunch of other names
that meant nothing to him—read them so she’d know what to do if she ever found
herself staring down a demon. She once remarked she might be psychic. Said she
was like a character in one of those books. Nonsense, he’d replied, that crap
is warping your brain. Psychics are just frauds looking for money. It ain’t
real.