Stranger (11 page)

I was often alone, but tonight for the first time in as long as I could think, I was also lonely.

My book, a tome I’d picked up from the library, had promised action, adventure and romance. So far there’d been a lot of pining and a little bit of angst, and I was already nearly a hundred pages into it. Since my thought was that by a hundred pages in, someone ought to have already died or gotten laid, I closed the book and put it aside.

Which left nothing but the TV. I flipped channels. Nothing of interest by the time I hit the top limit of channels. I held my television viewing to the same standards as my book reading—if nobody was dying or fucking by the time I reached a hundred, I was done.

Just before I reached my limit, I paused on a popular ghost-hunting show I’d heard about but never watched. A mixed team of psychics and unbelievers visited locales supposed to be haunted, each team seeking proof of the supernatural or attempting to debunk it. They always went in at night, of course, as if spirits couldn’t be arsed during daylight.

I don’t believe in fate, but there’s no denying serendipity. Though the show took place all over the country, tonight, the first episode I’d ever seen, had been filmed at the now-closed Harrisburg State Hospital. It was jarring to see familiar street signs and landscapes as they drove to their targeted spot. I’d never been inside the place myself, but I knew where it was and had driven past a few of the buildings. The Angelina Jolie film
Girl, Interrupted
had been filmed there, and a bunch of my friends and I had tried to catch glimpses of the movie stars working on the project.

Maybe it was because I could too easily associate this location with my life, or maybe the episode was particularly scary, but as I watched, by myself in darkness, the creeps that usually left me alone sneaked up and down my spine.

I should’ve turned it off. This wasn’t like watching cheesy horror movies in a packed theater. This was chilling, and downright disturbing, but like a child afraid to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night for fear the monster under the bed will reach out to grab her ankles, I pulled my knees up to my chest and hid my face behind the crocheted throw from the back of the couch. Of course, hiding behind a crocheted blanket didn’t offer much protection, since it was a series of holes linked together to form a pattern, and I saw everything. Yet, though I told myself I was being absolutely ridiculous, I couldn’t stop watching until the program was over. At the end of the show, in daylight, each team was supposed to present their evidence. Tonight’s program ended in a definite decision of “paranormal” even the unbelievers couldn’t disparage. Too much creepy shit had happened.

And now it was all in my head, in the dark, alone. Three floors above a room filled with corpses.

It had never bothered me before and I was determined not to let it bother me now. I turned off the television and turned on the lights. I picked up that book and tried to read. Curse my small bladder, though, and the effects of the tea, because no sooner had I turned a page or two than I had to get up and go to the bathroom again.

All I have to say is, if you’re going to have the piss scared out of you, the bathroom’s the place to be.

I’d just finished washing my hands when I heard it, the soft plink-tinkle of music. I froze while scalding water made pink gloves of my hands. I hissed and turned off the water.

Listening.

I heard nothing for long enough to convince myself it had been my imagination, but a second after that I froze again as the faint but unmistakable sound of musical notes drifted to my ears. I leaned toward the tiny, stuck-shut window, thinking the noise could have come from traffic, but heard nothing. Not even a passing car. After all, it was past midnight on a residential street in a small town that pretty much rolled up the sidewalks at 9:00 or 10:00 p.m.

In the living room, my TV was turned off. In my bedroom the clock radio was my next target, but it, too, was off. I checked my laptop, my cell phone, anything electronic that might have decided to rebel and start playing music. All silent.

I listened, hard, straining. I didn’t realize I’d clenched my hands so hard until my fingernails stung my palms. I forced myself to relax then. The show had spooked me, but faint phantom music wasn’t anything to fear. I didn’t fear the dead. The dead don’t sing or play guitar, and as I listened with every muscle and nerve in my body, that’s what I heard.

I’d seen too many horror movies to try to find the source of the noise. There was no way I was going to slip down the stairs in my pajamas with an inadequate weapon in my hands to confront what surely was a homicidal maniac with a hook for a hand and his mother’s head on a platter. A maniac bent on desecrating corpses—and that was what got me moving, finally, an old golf club of my dad’s clutched in one hand.

If there was some freak downstairs, getting ready to disrespect the dead, it was my duty to stop him. They couldn’t do it for themselves.

The music started and stopped. As I reached the second floor I lost it. I stopped in the small, hidden doorway that closed off the stairs from the hall and listened. Nothing from my office or Shelly’s. I put my ear toward the bottom of the stairs and heard another few notes and the hint of a voice. On the first floor I stopped again, but I already knew whoever was playing wasn’t there. If someone was lurking, he’d be by the bodies.

My hand sweated and loosened my grip on the golf club. I paused to dry my palm and get a better grip. I thought of what I’d say and do. Too late, too stupid, I realized I’d been as much an idiot as the heroine of any slasher flick. I hadn’t called the police.

The stairs at the bottom were even narrower, and darker. I came out into the hallway leading to the embalming room, the laundry room and the closed door to the small lounge. I listened again.

Music. The slow pluck of guitar strings and a low, male voice murmuring words I couldn’t make out. I gripped my golf club tighter, in two hands.

Who the hell was singing and playing guitar over a corpse at one in the morning?

In a dozen steps I was in front of the door. With one foot I kicked it open and leaped through it, club held at the ready. I made a noise, something meant to intimidate, that sounded extra loud in the small room.

Three things happened. First, I remembered, too late, that Mr. Stewart was in this room.

Second, I remembered that Mr. Stewart was being watched over by members of his religious community in keeping with their customs. And third, the man sitting next to the coffin, the man with the guitar in his hand, jumped up at my entrance and turned, his face a twisted mask of terror.

It was a stranger.

It was Sam.

“Holy fucking shit!”

A string on his guitar twanged, protesting his tight grip, and snapped. Sam, whose face had gone as white as milk, staggered back and hit his knees on the back of the chair upon which he’d been sitting. He went over like a sack of rocks. The guitar hit the floor first with another protest, but though the sound of jangled strings was discordant it was not nearly as awful as the noise the back of Sam’s head made when it cracked against the tiles.

I gasped. I might have said something else, something not in keeping with the image of a calm and compassionate funeral director. It might have been something related to intercourse and waterfowl, I’m not entirely sure, because at that moment all I could think of was the stranger from the Fishtank lying sprawled on the floor near the coffin and the way his arm had jostled the gurney as he fell. And the way the coffin was now looking as if it meant to tilt, and how quickly something like that could go over, once it decided the floor was really where it wanted to be.

I dropped the golf club and sprang over Sam’s discarded guitar. And Sam. I pushed against the coffin just in time. It only needed a tiny shift to get the balance back onto the gurney just right and prevent disaster, but though I hadn’t had to do much, my arms and legs trembled like I’d had to lift the entire thing by myself. My heart filled my ears with the sound of its pounding. I gripped the back of the chair, certain I was going to keel over as dramatically as the man on the floor.

I got my breathing under control and sat, unable to do anything else with my knees as limp as noodles. I blinked back the sick, faint feeling and the red haze tingeing the edges of my vision.

I drew in another slow breath and pressed my thumb between my closed eyes, hard. When I opened them, Sam was still sprawled at my feet. His eyes were open, and though I half expected to see a spreading pool of blood from beneath his head, the floor remained bare. He looked stunned.

I knelt beside him and lifted his hand. His pulse throbbed beneath my inexperienced fingers. I had no idea if it was strong or thready or if he was even conscious, because though his eyes were open, he didn’t blink.

“Are you all right?” My voice sounded hoarse. How loudly had I shouted when I came through that door like a berserker?

Sam moaned. His fingers in mine were cold, but the room was pretty chilly, out of necessity. He had calluses on his hands I hadn’t noticed the first time.

His eyelids fluttered, sending dark, thick lashes over eyes electric blue under the fluorescent lighting. He groaned, a sound distinct from a moan but no less disturbing.

I chafed his hand. “Sam? Are you all right?”

“Am I drunk?” His thick voice did sound slurred.

“I don’t think so. You hit your head pretty hard.”

“Shit.” Sam sat up with a wince, his other hand going to the back of his head. His fingers probed, and he hissed in a breath. “Damn, that hurts. And I am drunk. A little.”

I let go of his hand and sat back on my heels. “God. I’m so sorry. I heard music, and…”

He was staring at my breasts, unbound beneath my thin T-shirt. The chill in the room had tightened my nipples prominently, and I hunched forward to ineffectively loosen my shirt. Sam’s gaze roamed over my whole body, taking in not just the tight T-shirt but my flannel pants, now riding lower than normal, and my bare toes. He leaned forward without a second’s hesitation and took my shoulders in his big, callused hands to hold me still.

He kissed me, hard and well.

Stunned at the sudden assault, I did nothing for as long as it took him to nudge open my mouth with his and slip his tongue inside. I gasped. He mumbled. I jerked back, out of his grasp, and slapped him across the face.

Sam sprawled again onto the floor, one hand on his cheek. “Well, I guess that answers the question about whether or not I’m dreaming.”

I scrambled to my feet, my chest heaving in breath after breath but my lungs still empty.

“What the hell?”

Sam got up, too, his hands held out in supplication, but didn’t approach me. “I was just checking. I mean, c’mon, can you blame me for wondering?”

With fingers trembling only a little with affront and a whole lot with an entirely different emotion, I wiped my mouth. “This is not the place!”

“I’d tend to agree.” Sam’s gaze took in my clothes again, then moved to my face. He touched his jaw with a wince and probed the inside of his mouth with his tongue. He bled now, a tiny drop at the corner of his lips. “But honestly, what do you expect? I’m watching my father’s corpse and the woman who I met in a bar a couple weeks ago shows up dressed like she’s ready for a slumber party. Am I supposed to assume this isn’t a dream? I mean, maybe I got that whack on the head and I’m still out cold.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “You’re not dreaming.”

“Well…then what are you doing here?” Sam pointed upward. “I’m all about having my prayers answered, but I didn’t think it was going to happen quite this way.”

“I work here.” I looked at his father’s coffin. “I think we should move this conversation outside.”

Sam looked, too, at the plain pine box. “The old man can’t hear us.”

I lifted my chin. “It’s disrespectful!”

Sam shrugged. “Fine. Okay. Outside.”

I tried not to think of his eyes on my rear as he followed me, but when I turned around to face him out in the hallway, that’s exactly where I found them. “Can you…leave him?”

“Technically? No. But considering the circumstances, I think God might understand.”

“What about your father?”

Sam’s tongue slipped out to lick away the blood in the corner of his mouth. “He’ll have to deal with it, too.”

I took him upstairs, where we kept the coffeemaker. I didn’t think of much beyond keeping my hands steady as I poured coffee grounds into the filter and added water from a gallon jug. When I pulled out mugs from the cupboard and set sugar packets and dried creamer on the counter, I tried not to think about what sort of serendipity had brought Sam here. To me.

“Thanks.” Sam pulled a mug toward him when I’d filled it with coffee. He drank it black without a wince.

I added sugar and creamer to mine until the black brew turned golden brown, then blew on it to cool it, but I didn’t drink. The first sip would fill my mouth with the taste of coffee and chemicals, and wash away the taste of Sam.

“Soooo,” Sam said after a moment in which we stared at each other over our mugs.

“That’s my dad in there. And you work here.”

“Yes. I’m the funeral director.”

Sam lifted an eyebrow. “Wow.”

Another few moments of silence while we stared.

“What are you doing here?” I said finally.

“Watching my father.”

“And playing guitar? What…I mean, I didn’t think that was allowed.”

Sam shrugged. “I’m not the praying sort.”

I shook my head a little. My heart had finally stopped trying to burst out through my chest.

“You nearly killed me.”

“Me, kill you?” Sam’s eyes went wide. “When you burst through that door with the golf club—”

He demonstrated, waving his arms above his head and making a guttural, horrible battle cry, his face wild. “I nearly crapped myself. Hell, I’m not sure I didn’t.”

I didn’t mean to laugh, really, but laughter often strikes me when it’s not supposed to. I covered it by drinking, at last, the coffee I’d made too strong for my taste. “Sorry.”