《Fade》


 Chapter 1 - The Girl With The Blue Tongue

    Chapter 1 - The Girl with The Blue Tongue


    John Grimshaw stood within the St. Christopher¡¯s church on an early Tuesday morning. The last of the summer heat was in full retreat giving way to autumn, yet the church remained uncomfortably hot for the eighty-four members in attendance.


    A set of tall stain-glassed windows rose high behind the altar, bathing John and the rest of the people in the front row in a mirage of red and orange. John lowered his head and closed his eyes, listening to the Vicar¡¯s warm words. Words designed to soothe a troubled heart and give hope to those coping with the blunt finality of death.


    John felt so acquainted with these words that their potency felt strangely diluted, like a shot of beer among a pint of lemonade. While other attendants sobbed and sniffled, John felt the words trail over him like water on a duck¡¯s back. He looked over at his good friend Richard Pratt, preparing to make his speech, and pitied him.


    ¡°And now, some words from Richard, father to our beloved Michael.¡± The vicar announced.


    John watched his friend climb the shallow carpeted steps to the podium, his head hanging low and sullen. The Vicar gave Richard one of his deepest smiles, gently rubbing the sleeve on his obsidian jacket. Richard turned to face the sea of onlookers, his face red and his eyes puffy from active use. In his hand, he clutched a wrinkled piece of paper and began to spread the parchment out on the wooden podium.


    John was suddenly conscious of the fingers in his pockets and removed them, deciding instead to interlock them at his waist. Richard seldom looked up from his sheet of paper as he clutched it like a safety raft. The paper looked watermarked despite the fact it hadn''t rained in weeks. Richard cleared his throat, then began his readings.


    The church listened, some clearing their noses while others stared absently at the ground. At times, Richard paused to gather his resolve before continuing. Burying your son was a task John had undergone himself back in the summer of 2001.


    Most recently, however, was the burial of his wife: Lucy Grimshaw, and the pain after his son¡¯s death, had once again sunk its teeth into him with the passing of his wife. John¡¯s eyes wandered unconsciously to the Vicar and with great animosity, he cursed him, as if he was the omen to all his pain.


    When it was over, the Vicar moved to rescue Richard, gently touching his arm again in solidarity. John gave his friend a nod as he descended, allowing him the knowledge at least that ¡®he did good¡¯.


    The service continued with some more attendants¡ªmostly close friends or family showing their support and making their own speeches. Most notably was the auntie of Michael, who spoke distressed words until they evidentially melted away into nothing more than sobs. She was quickly saved and escorted off the podium by loving arms. By twelve o¡¯clock noon it was over, and the attendants began spilling out into the much cooler summer air outside.


    John felt the many eyes weighing him down as he left the church, many of whom were acutely aware of John¡¯s past. Time was a healer John was led to believe, but wounds as deep as his would never heal he knew, regardless of how much time you poured into them.


    When the coffin was being carried out of the open doors of the church, John remembered his wife being carried out in one similar, with its bouquet of brightly coloured flowers trimming its hem.


    John returned to his car; an old 1990 BMW. He hungrily reached into his glove box to retrieve his pack of Richmond¡¯s. The cigarette pack would have been treated with the same contempt as a spider if found by his wife Lucy a year earlier. A thing to be snatched up and hurriedly tossed away with clean efficiency.


    John pinched at one of the ¡®cancer sticks¡¯ Lucy used to call them and lit up. He watched as the coffin was gingerly lifted into the back of the hearse and driven out of the car park.


    The St. Christopher¡¯s church rested on a dizzying height that overlooked the entire Runcorn area. Most predominantly of all in this scenic view, was the 1899 Transporter Bridge that stretched out over the narrow vein of the River Mersey. John finished his cigarette and allowed the car park to filter out a bit more before hopping in his car and beginning his solo journey to the cemetery.


    The drive was short and John journeyed it in silence. John followed the ribbon of cars ahead while absently looking over at his passenger side. He thought of his daughter, and the thought of inviting Angelina to this event seemed unimaginable given her allergic propensity around death. The last five years of Angelina¡¯s life had been difficult, more so than John perhaps. John sometimes had to remind himself that Lucy¡¯s death had not just been hard on him, but also her. Especially after all the business with her marriage.


    The thought of so much tragedy swirling around John¡¯s head brought attention to the shining silver cross hanging from his rear-view mirror. At the next red light, John untangled the cross his wife had so intricately tied and tossed it in the glove box out of sight. The cross had remained on the mirror every since, but John had hardly noticed it until now; as if it had been there so long it had molded into the car itself.


    ¡°Bye-bye Jesus.¡± He whispered under his breath with a sort of self-righteous reverence and lit another cigarette.


    The burial was comprised mostly of everyone just waiting around for the coffin to be brought through. Once at the site, each man and woman bowed their head in dutiful silence, then watched as the expensive wood was lowered inch by inch into its final resting place. Richard tossed dirt on his son¡¯s coffin while his mother tossed a single rose, gently kissing it beforehand. Others had brought flowers too John now realised and was grateful when the Vicar offered him some dirt from an offering box. John scooped up a handful of dirt keenly, said a few words in his head which he felt appropriate, then walked over to peer into the six-foot drop.


    ¡®We¡¯ll all end up down there with you one day.¡¯ He thought. ¡®And pity should not be onto you, but the people throwing flowers on you. For those still pushing through the tragedy of life, it is truly them that should be mourned. Be at peace Michael.¡¯


    A shiver ran up John¡¯s back and in an underarm motion, John tossed the handful of dirt, hearing it hit the coffin with a sprinkled thud. Tears were now popular among the onlookers as many wept into their hankies or husbands¡¯ arms. It was over. Nothing left now but for the workers to fully bury Michael and move on to the next one.


    John wondered whether the people in charge of fully burying the coffins at a cemetery ever grew numb to it. Whether on their first day the shovel felt twenty pounds heavier than it really was. After some time, John concluded they probably saw nothing more than a hole needing to be filled.


    ¡°John?¡±


    John turned to see an old, short plump woman. It was Rosey Pratt, Richard¡¯s mother, Michael¡¯s grandmother.


    ¡°Hi, Rose,¡± John said, quickly pulling his fifth Richmond out of his mouth. Rosey gave the cigarette a contemptuous look as if to say: ¡®What would Lucy think?¡¯


    ¡°Thanks for coming,¡± Her lips said instead. She took a glance over at Richard who was being taken into the arms of his wife. ¡°I know Richard appreciates it. And I know it must be hard on you. Coming back here so soon after--.¡± Rosey vaguely cast a look over her shoulder to where John¡¯s wife lay.


    ¡°It¡¯s just¡ª¡± she tried.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine Rose. Seriously.¡± John said, keeping his voice cooled. ¡°Just glad to be here for Richard.¡±


    There was a moment of silence, neither one speaking.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    ¡°How¡¯s Angelina? Is she doing better?¡± Rosey asked.


    ¡°Fine.¡± he said, ¡°Just¡ªfine Rosey thanks. I think I¡¯ll say bye to Richard before I leave.¡±


    John walked briskly past Rosey, trying to create as much space between him and her as possible. John felt his blood run hot. Her grandson lays in the ground yet she still insists on poking her nose in other people¡¯s business.


    ¡®Control your temper.¡¯ John heard his wife¡¯s voice say to him from some dark corridor in his mind. He took a calming drag on his cigarette, passing a glance at his wife¡¯s tombstone that lay across the neatly tendered lawns, then made his way to Richard.


    He knew it was about time to be saying goodbye anyway. He would be expecting a phone call in the next hour or two from Dr. Sternal, Angelina¡¯s clinical therapist. John wanted to believe his daughter was just temporarily sick, depressed, going through a tough time; hoping against hope she would get better, as did his bank account which slowly depleted from the sessions.


    Walking along the well-groomed grass lined with headstones, John noticed a girl sitting alone. He wasn¡¯t sure what drew his eye to her, perhaps it was the fact she was sitting alone on a bench which wasn¡¯t that odd given where they were, or maybe it was the enormous blue slush-puppy the girl held in one hand that caught him. The girl looked no older than twenty and wore a tobacco brown beanie that covered shoulder-length auburn hair.


    John watched her over the patch of tombstones that sprouted from the earth like broken teeth. When their eyes met, John was about to break away until he caught a tongue slither from the girl¡¯s mouth, it was stained blue from the slush puppy. The girl retracted her tongue and went back to sipping her blue beverage. John''s face contorts from the obscene gesture. The kids nowadays seemed as alien to John as the new ¡®vegan¡¯ foods they all ate.


    After saying his goodbyes and briefly visiting his wife¡¯s resting place. John received a slew of sympathetic stares from the people who had last year attended his own wife¡¯s funeral. John Grimshaw crawled into his car and left. On his journey home, while he thought about the girl with the blue tongue, his phone began to ring in his pocket, vibrating its distress. John swerved slightly on the road but steadied himself with one hand on the wheel.


    Dr. Sternal was digitally printed on the phone¡¯s face.


    ¡°Good evening Doctor,¡± John answered.


    ¡°Good evening Mr. Grimshaw,¡± Came the soft female voice of Sophia Sternal. ¡°I¡¯m just calling to give you an update on your daughter''s progress as we agreed. Are you available to talk?¡±


    John pressed the phone against his right shoulder and dropped into second gear, maintaining a safe fifteen miles per hour. He knew he should hang up and call Dr. Sternal back when he got home, but the diagnostic on his daughter¡¯s health bullied away any reason to forestall.


    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m available.¡± He said, quickly winding up his window to mute the wind. ¡°How is she?¡±


    ¡°Angelina has made some progress today,¡± Dr. Sternal said, ¡°showing much less irritableness comparatively speaking. Forgive me for being blunt Mr. Grimshaw, but as a Clinical Physician I can¡¯t help but notice the same criterion that sometimes resembles borderline Schizophrenia.¡±


    John felt his neck suddenly grow hot.


    ¡°Has anyone in your family Mr. Grimshaw ever been previously diagnosed with Schizophrenia?¡±


    ¡®Yes," he thought. ¡°No, I don¡¯t believe so.¡± He lied instead.


    ¡°This might just be in partisan with the recent Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder Angelina has experienced. However, Mr. Grimshaw, I am obliged to tell you that she may need more psychiatric help if she continues to show behaviour associated with this.¡±


    John listened with the intensity of someone being told whether they have stage-four colon cancer. Angelina was his last living relative and although they had fallen out many years ago, Lucy¡¯s death had built a silverly lined bridge between them. That, and the money John was fronting for her therapy.


    ¡°Mr. Grimshaw? Are you still there?¡± the voice said in his ear.


    ¡°Hmm, yes. I¡¯m still here Doctor.¡±


    ¡°Has your daughter disclosed to you any notable changes lately? Experiencing any hallucinations or delusions?¡±


    John felt his head grow feint. He Imagined his daughter being tied to a stretcher and hoisted into the back of a white van, her black hair thrashing about as she tried to bite anyone within reach.


    ¡°N-no,¡± John said. ¡°If I¡¯m honest doctor, I haven¡¯t talked to my daughter in two weeks.¡±


    There was a frightening pause.


    ¡°Is your daughter answering your phone calls?¡± Dr. Sternal asked flatly.


    ¡®No¡¯ John thought.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t called.¡± He lied again, ¡°I¡¯ve been busy preparing for a funeral and it¡¯s coming up to the first year since my wife¡¯s passing, so¡ª.¡±


    Another frightening pause. John could almost feel Dr. Sternal¡¯s eyes penetrating him across the phone line, trying to determine whether he was lying, undoubtedly like one of her clinical patients. John closed his eyes as if to hide from her telepathic gaze when¡­


    ¡°Very well Mr. Grimshaw. Please remain in close contact with your daughter and inform me immediately if she experiences anything unusual.¡±


    ¡®So, you can ship her off into a looney bin, got it.¡¯


    ¡°Understood doctor.¡± He said, and in the rear-view mirror, unshackled by the silver cross now, flashing blue lights signalled the arrival of a police car behind him.


    ¡°I have to go, Doctor.¡± John managed before hanging up. The police car chirped an ear-piercing siren with one rapid ¡®blurp¡¯ signaling him to pull over.


    John pulled over, feeling his heart rate slightly uptick. The hands gripping the wheel began to sweat. When he pulled his car to a stop and quickly hid his mobile phone in the glove compartment like a man stashing drugs; watching, he saw the officer parked behind him through his rear-view mirror and step out.


    The officer¡¯s high-vis chest armour shined vividly in the mirror and John¡¯s eyes were attracted to the two-way radio, black baton, and silver handcuffs strapped to the officer¡¯s chest. The officer exposed well-defined forearms and a short blonde buzz of hair, the type of hair that reminded John of every grunt in the war movies he watched. John wound down his window halfway, then waited anxiously for the officer to arrive.


    John put on his most earnest smile which was repaid with an expression of deep seriousness. An expression often wore by the jobsworth and court judges alike.


    ¡°Can you wind down the window fully please?¡± The officer said when he got close. John complied, maintaining his fondest smile.


    ¡°Do you know why I pulled you over?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m the lucky winner of a pull-over pool?¡± John heard himself say. The officer watched him intently through unamused eyes. John put on his best ¡®just a dad¡¯s joke¡¯ face, immediately regretting it. The officer pulled what looked like a notepad from a breast pocket on his vest and leaned in as if to get a better look at the car¡¯s interior...or to smell John¡¯s breath. When he was content, he said:


    ¡°You been drinking today sir?¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡± Answered John.


    ¡°Would you be willing to do a Breathalyzer test?¡± The officer asked in a tone that resembled more of a demand than a question.


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    "Alright." Said the officer leaning in close and pocketing his notepad. He slid the pen over one ear. "Keep the window down for us and I''ll be right back. Okay?"


    And with that, the officer returned to his car. John watched him through the rear-view mirror as he retrieved the breathalyser and paced back. When the nozzle was offered to John, he followed the instructions given and blew knowing full well the device wouldn¡¯t pick up the required level of alcohol to fail.


    The officer waited a moment and John read the eyes of someone sceptical to the results being given to him by the mechanical tool. John smirked at the officer¡¯s disappointment, stroking his short beard that needed shaving while tracing the cars that passed him on the road; all of which faithfully following the speed limit now.


    ¡°I pulled you over because you were on your phone.¡± The officer said, pulling free the pen from his ear.


    ¡°Yeah, sorry about that.¡± John pleaded, ¡°I got an important phone call and well¡ªI kept the car below fifteen and kept her in¡­¡± but he knew it was no good. John could see his words were falling on deaf ears and after a: ¡°Uh-huh¡± the officer made a trip back to his car to print him up a ticket. John exhaled and accepted the ticket with another one of his smiles then rolled up his window aggressively. John pulled off the curb and drove home.


    When John returned home later that evening, he stared blankly at the ticket handed to him. Although no points had been taken from his licence, he received a seventy-pound fine which needed to be paid in full before October tenth. John reminded himself of the police officer, with his blonde buzz-cut hairdo, and crinkled the ticket in a closed fist. He remembered the girl sitting in the cemetery, the one with the blue slush puppy and matching blue tongue. He remembered his wife¡¯s tombstone where the name Lucy Grimshaw was engraved into fresh black marble above as an inscription of ¡®A loving wife'' as well as Michael¡¯s coffin being gently lowered into the ground.

 Chapter 2 - The Bathtub Incident

    Chapter 2 - The Bathtub Incident


    Later that evening at nine-thirty, John attempted to call his daughter but received no luck. He watched his usual football highlights on TV. Liverpool, his diehard team ever since his father had deemed it so, had won in today¡¯s game. John had missed the match on the account of the funeral but caught parts of the match most notable, as the football channel reeled shot, after shot, until at last Liverpool had scored a goal, clutching a one-nil victory over Newcastle.


    The living room was dark, the way John liked it and only the erratic light from the tv illuminated the room. Over the roaring celebration being played on the tv, which involved five, no, six players to pile on top of their goalscorer, John heard something splat in the bathroom down the hall.


    The sound caused him to snap his neck and peer hopelessly down the black hallway that led past the kitchen and into the bathroom. The door to the bathroom was masked behind a veil of shadow, but John was sure it was still closed. The sound that had caught his attention was muffled, same as all sounds trapped behind an inch of wood. Another splat, only this time John recognised it to be more than just a simple splat, instead, it sounded like water dripping on the tile.


    His first thought was that someone was in his bathroom, perhaps a burglar or more probably some animal that had crept in through the bathroom window. Did he leave it open? After the initial fear of danger subsided, that same predictable innate fear anyone experiences when they hear a noise in their house, John landed on it being some fault with the plumbing. Maybe a pipe burst and was now leaking water onto his bathroom floor like some garden sprinkler?


    He muted the tv and silently waited for the sound the reveal itself to him again. Seconds stretched into what felt like minutes before the sound of sloshing water met John¡¯s ears, the same sound that arises when sitting in a filled tub and you lift your leg from the tub¡¯s waterline¡ªcausing the water to slosh and trickle down. Someone, or something, was in his bathtub. John felt his face flush and his heart uptick like it did with the police officer earlier. He stood out of his leather armchair clumsily, feeling his knees protest under the sudden movement.


    ¡°Hel¡ª¡± He went to call out, then reconsidered. Now John could hear the screeching whistle from the shower''s curtains rails. He moved reluctantly across the beige quilted carpet and into the hall. The bathroom door came into view as John''s eyes grew accustomed to the dark interior of the hall, and in that valley of darkness, he listened. His feet slowly leading him to the thing that occupied his bathroom.


    John thought about going to a neighbour¡¯s house and telling them what he heard. But then imagined the shame when they discovered the cause of the noise was nothing more than a tap running, or a toilet blockage. Whatever it was, it was going to make him laugh when he discovered it. John reached for the door handle, then froze.


    The perfume fragrance of ¡®light blue¡¯ drifted heavenly through the cracks of the door, his wife Lucy¡¯s scent. John paused to let the smell swallow him, remembering all the times he¡¯d buried his face into his wife¡¯s supple neck to drown in that smell.


    The sound of falling water suddenly erupted from inside, like a person getting out of the tub. John listened obediently; his eyes closed as hot tears began to trickle down his face. It had all been a dream, his wife had not died nearly a year ago but instead was simply getting out of the bathtub. John would feel the door retreat from him at any moment, to reveal the slender body of his wife hidden beneath a snowy white towel. John heard breathing. Was it his breaths? Or the breaths of the thing on the other side of the door?


    His eyes still closed, he held his breath to find out, the room fell silent. John opened his eyes slowly, fearing the thing on the other side of the door would be looking at him, and if it were his wife, and she had indeed been dead for almost a year, John envisioned what that might look like. Her pearly glazed eyes staring out at him. The black flesh forming around her mouth like rotten lipstick and instead of ¡®light blue¡¯, he would smell something much more potent than flowers. His eyes shot open. The closed door to the bathroom stared back. He exhaled.


    He had been daydreaming, the pale cream varnish that coated his bathroom door shimmered from the distant light projected from the tv. He waited for another sound, any sound, so he could burst into the room and unmask the thing inside once and for all. But no sound came. John listened so hard he could hear the static hum from the muted tv down the hall behind him. He touched the door handle and turned it. It was cold, colder than he could ever remember it being.


    Inside the bathroom was the mirror, hanging smartly above a sink, the ceramic toilet, and ultimately the bathtub. John looked around the stagnant room with a heavy scrupulous eye. Everything was where it should have been. The baby blue shower curtain was drawn but John noticed the tub held no water. The bathtub mat that flanked the tub was bone dry despite the sloshing of water John had heard mere moments ago. He had imagined the whole thing; he was still gripped in the claws of loss even after these long months.


    He glanced over his shoulder at the long distance he had travelled. Had he dreamt it all and sleepwalked over here? The tv was still muted. ¡®No, no sleepwalking John. Just hearing noises that aren¡¯t there.¡¯ At the prospect of what that might mean, panic struck him.


    The ordeal reminded John of the time he experienced something similar shortly after his wife¡¯s passing, only that one had been much less¡­convincing. When John was getting ready to attend his wife¡¯s burial, he brushed his teeth in front of the mirror when he suddenly heard the toilet seat drop behind him. The noise was so loud he exercised a yell. He looked up into the mirror, casting a timid look over his shoulder, and saw the toilet had been lowered. He hadn¡¯t lowered it himself and his wife¡¯s words drifted subconsciously to the forefront of his mind from some years lost past: ¡°John, you left the seat up again!¡±


    John had shaken the phenomenon away almost instantly then, but now, in the confines of his bathroom, he contemplated. He sniffed the air like a police dog hunting for the scent of drugs riding it, desperately trying to get another whiff of Lucy¡¯s perfume. The air was scentless and fragrant-free.


    *


    The next morning John awoke to the sound of birds singing happily outside his bedroom window. A single fraction of light beamed radiantly across his bed coverings like a hot finger. Sleepily unaware of last night''s events, John drunkenly reached over to touch his wife, only for his hand to meet open air. He lay there a moment, allowing his mind to tick over and recall all that happened with the bathroom.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    He got up, avoiding his usual morning routine of showering, and headed straight for the kitchen. After some breakfast which comprised of eggs on toast¡ªsunny side up or not all, he finished his coffee and tried to call his Angie again. The phone rang on and on until at last the default operator informed him: ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but the person you are trying to call, is not available. If you would li¡ª¡± John hung up.


    Perhaps he would go visit Angelina after he had visited the graveyard. For reasons unbeknownst to John, he had a sudden urge to be back at that cemetery. Part of him wanted to visit Michael. But the other part of him, the more convincing part, just wanted to make sure his wife was still buried below six feet of dirt. It was silly of course but the phenomenon of last night seemed all too real to discard any possibilities. Lucy¡­or something close to Lucy, had been in his tub last night, he was sure. He was not a superstitious man and far from being a man of faith. Yesterday, he had flung Jesus into his glove box after all, but if Lucy had come to visit him last night, by God or by some other supernatural way, then he was going to visit her in return. The third possibility on how he heard all those things he did last night, hung before him like a fly, only to be swatted away entirely.


    He arrived at the cemetery within the next hour and as he was walking up the gravel path to Michael¡¯s grave; the one grave among a sea of graves without a tombstone. John fetched a cigarette. He didn¡¯t usually smoke this much and after combining yesterday¡¯s smokes with today¡¯s, he was already eight cigarettes lighter with the day still young.


    John sucked at the cigarette hungry, tasting its rich tobacco culminate with coffee and eggs already on his breath, and blew. Michael¡¯s grave was little more than a mound of dirt compared to other tombstones.


    ¡°Those things give you cancer and kill you, you know?¡± Shouted a soft crisp voice from afar. John looked up, bewildered to find the girl with the beanie hat and blue tongue jeering at him. John feigned a stifled laugh. The sight of her again so soon sent rivulets of anger to charge up John¡¯s nerves. He walked slowly to meet her at the bench she was sitting on, the same bench as yesterday, taking great care to control his anger from showing. It was just a kid after all.


    Unremarkably the girl watched him approach with a sort of excitement. Her lips were pierced tightly into a grin, a grin you¡¯d find patched on a rebellious toddler. In her hand, she clutched a cherry red slushie as opposed to the previous blue one, and John considered her tongue would look close to normal if she were to jab it at him again.


    When John got close, he looked deep into her eyes the same way he did his daughter when she had misbehaved, but unlike Angelina, this girl only stared back with that incessant smirk.


    ¡°What are you doing here?¡± He asked.


    ¡°Obliviously the same thing you are.¡± The girl replied sharply before sucking on the straw embedded in her icy beverage. John sniggered. He had never encountered a girl so unapologetic and naively rude before in all his life. He suddenly found himself more interested in this girl than offended.


    ¡°May I sit?¡± John asked gesturing to space beside her. The girl shrugged her shoulders and pulled her lips free from the straw long enough to say:


    ¡°S¡¯not my bench.¡±


    John sat feeling the wooden frame strain beneath his weight. The girl smelled like ash and bubble gum. Her long auburn hair remained mostly hidden beneath a crimson beanie this time, and John noticed her fingernails we painted black but chipped, each finger poking from her oversized jacket sleeve.


    ¡°So¡ªyou here for anyone?¡± John asked. The girl nodded over at a tombstone a few metres down the line. There was no bench adjacent to that one, so the girl sat here. The tombstone was too far for John to read but he looked at the girl with a new sort of sympathy.


    ¡°I saw you yesterday.¡± He said, ¡°It¡¯s rude to stick out your tongue at people you don¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t have been staring at me then.¡± She replied.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t staring,¡± John said indignantly. The girl shrugged.


    ¡°Do you have a spare fag?¡± She asked as if the line of discussion was trivial and John was her best friend. John, unable to find words, instead found his hand rescuing his pack of Richmond¡¯s from his trouser pocket. As the girl plucked a cigarette from the packet and lit up using her own plastic lighter, John watched her incredulously.


    ¡°How old are you?¡± he asked as she took a drag.


    ¡°Eighteen.¡± She answered through a cloud of smoke. She offered John the straw to her slush puppy as a sort of repayment for the cigarette, but John refused it with a smirk.


    ¡°I thought you said to me those things gave you cancer and kill you?¡± John asked.


    Another shrug.


    ¡°Who are you out here for anyway?¡± She asked dipping the question and gazing at him behind bright baby blue eyes. Eyes that would fully mature into deep turbulent oceans once they peered into the dark world a little more. John coughed at the smoke billowing around his head and gestured to his wife¡¯s grave. The girl furrowed a brow and looked over at Michael¡¯s grave. The same grave she had spotted him visit yesterday.


    ¡°Oh, that¡¯s just the son of a good friend of mine.¡± John clarified.


    The girl pushed out her lower lip, seeing the absent tombstone over Michael¡¯s grave


    ¡°Two birds, one stone.¡± She said smiling. John grimaced, confused.


    ¡°How¡¯d your wife die?¡± she quickly added, somewhat ashamed of making a joke.


    ¡°Cancer,¡± John said reflex ably. He had answered that question more times than he had wished. On more occasions than there were seasons in a lifetime.


    ¡°She a smoker?¡± The girl inquired taking another deep drag. John looked at her and noticed the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose.


    ¡°N-no. Never smoked a cigarette in her life.¡± He answered.


    ¡°Harsh.¡± The girl said taking one last drag from the Richmond.


    The two sat there a moment, silently looking around the cemetery together. People moved with the sombre pace of zombies John observed. Each one struck with the sullen expression he saw on his friend Richard while on that podium. The sun was hidden behind a thick cloud that looked pregnant and ready to give birth to rain. The dim sky coated a morbid shade over the entire scene before them.


    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± John heard himself ask. He wasn¡¯t sure whether the question sounded as weird as it felt. An old man asking an eighteen-year-old girl her name on a bench was just the red flag he had warned his daughter about growing up.


    ¡°Jennifer. You?¡±


    ¡°John.¡±


    Jennifer swapped the slushie from her right hand to her left, then reached out to shake John¡¯s hand. The gesture was weird, formal, yet not formal. A sort of half-joke, like when a boy playfully salutes his friend in a game of army soldiers. John took the smaller hand that was easily swallowed in his and gave it a pump. Jennifer maintained an iron grip despite her small hand and smiled.


    ¡°Pleased to meet. John.¡±


    And on that day, John met Jennifer Stone, the first of many interesting individuals that kept him going that little bit longer.

 Chapter 3 - In the Summer of 2001

    Chapter 3 - In the summer of 2001


    It was Saturday morning during the summer of 2001, John Grimshaw escorted his family to the junior league football game. The front windows to John¡¯s 1990 BMW were down in response to the blazing sun outside. A cool wind kissed at John¡¯s sunburnt face, a sunburn he procured after sleeping out in the garden the day earlier. Lucy, who sat in the passenger side displaying her long tanned legs; legs eleven as John would have put it, had found his sunburn mishap as pretty amusing. Names such as ¡®Oompa Loompa¡¯ and ¡®Cherry face¡¯ were favorites among the carpool this morning.


    John glanced up at his naked rear-view mirror to steal a glance at Jamie. His nine-year-old son was still gazing out of the window, his thick brunette fringe pressed heavily against the laminated glass window as the car drifted along. He was in his football kit, and on his lap rested a pair of worn goalie gloves. John didn¡¯t have to be a shrink or one of those fancy psychiatrists to know his son was nervous.


    Adjacent to Jamie was Angelina, who sang youthfully to the song on the radio. Single strands of black hair caught in the wind flowed behind her like thin ribbons. Lucy turned to beam at her daughter¡¯s vocals, gently adding her own voice to form a honeyed duo. All the while John listened on, his eyes drifting to nervous Jamie in the backseat.


    When they arrived at the football field of Woodside, John felt something tug at his shirt. Turning he saw it was Lucy who wore her most bashful ¡®I want something but I¡¯m too embarrassed to ask¡¯ face. It was just one of the many ways in which she could get what she wanted from John, and John often found himself submitting himself to such looks. Following her gaze, he noticed a brightly coloured ice-cream truck parked on a patch of dry grass. Chuckling, he began fetching for his wallet while Angelina pumped her arm at the anticipation of ice cream.


    The field stretched out before them like a green carpet. The air was filled with boisterous shouts and cheers, penetrated only by the shrill squeal of a referee¡¯s whistle. Every now and again a heavy thud boomed out and John¡¯s head would turn to trace a football sailing through the air. John looked at Jamie again, his wallet now in hand. Jamie looked out at the display in motion on the field as if staring into a Roman arena; where lightly armoured men fought off hungry lions to avoid being eaten.


    ¡°What do you want champ?¡± John asking fetching a tenner from his wallet. Jamie shrugged, then looked up at his father. Shielding his eyes, he said: ¡°Maybe a Twister?¡±


    ¡°Alright,¡± replied John, ¡°Two Twister¡¯s and whatever my girls want.¡±


    Lucy smiled fetching the note from his hand. She cast a spirited look at Jamie who was already looking back out over at the bigger kids in play.


    ¡°Tackle him!¡± A strong shout erupted from the game in play. A tall fifteen-year-old boy slid twenty feet from Jamie, taking his opponent to the ground in a spray of dirt and grass.


    John assured Lucy with a nod and a wink that said: ¡®He¡¯ll be fine'' Lucy agreed, revealing a set of white teeth.


    ¡°Thank you, Sugar daddy.¡± She whispered and turned to walk Angelina to the truck. On the way, John heard Angelina asked her what a ¡®sugar daddy¡¯ was.


    ¡°You okay Jamie?¡± John asked. He crouched to look out over the scene in view. Football teams were in practice, both in the older and younger age groups, but Jamie seemed to be following the older kids at play as if it were them, he¡¯d be facing against and not the other boys his own age. Jamie turned to face him, his mother¡¯s blue eyes matching the sky above. He managed a grin but that was all. He was just nervous John knew, as all kids have a right to be before a big game.


    ¡°You¡¯re gonna be fine J,¡± John reassured. ¡°It¡¯s normal to be nervous but remember the purpose of all this is to have fun. Now I¡¯ve seen you save goals all week against your mates so if any get past you, we¡¯ll just blame it on the team¡¯s pitiful defense, alright?¡±


    Jamie nodded in agreement giving way to some relief. John clasp his son¡¯s arms and stood. The scent of grass was heavy on the field, bringing John back to the days when he was the one playing football as a youth. By the time Lucy and Angie had returned, John began to feel his sunburn become irritated under the scrupulous intensity of the sunlight. He tried to resolve this by pressing the freshly frozen wrapped Twister to his face. He looked stupid but the temporary relief was worth it.


    ¡°Cherry face.¡± Lucy mimed, spilling a retained laughter from Angie. John stared at his wife, ice lolly still pressed against an inflamed cheek and held out his hand for change.


    ¡°Even ten¡± Lucy shrugged, sucking absently on her own ice lolly, and averting her gaze mockingly.


    An hour and a half later, the game was in full swing. Each half would consist of twenty-five-minute play, with the exception of added time, and broken up by a short interval in-between. John, Lucy, and Angie watched eagerly from the sidelines, every now and again cheering or calling out: ¡°JAMIE!¡± when the ball was saved or knocked away from goal.


    John watched his son in reverence and despite the early few minutes where Jamie looked prone to make a mistake on the account of his nerves, he played as good as he¡¯d always played. Even Angie seemed to admire her younger brother at this moment as he dove acrobatically to save an oncoming shot on goal.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    When the first whistle signalled the end of the first half, Jamie¡¯s team were leading two goals to one. John watched as his son jogged across the field to reunite with his family. Lucy, her arms outstretched, held a face displaying both satisfaction and relief at her son¡¯s performance.


    ¡°That was amazing Jamie!¡± Lucy screamed giving the surrounding parents a taste of her pride. Jamie squirmed under her embrace; his head lowered in a giddy sort of way but didn¡¯t struggle nearly enough to free himself. Angie clapped energetically next to him, as if proud to simply be his sister.


    ¡°Alright, leave the man alone Lucy,¡± John said. ¡°He¡¯s still gotta get all them cheerleaders after the game, and if they saw him now, what would they think.¡±


    Lucy ignored him and planted a big kiss on Jamie¡¯s right cheek. Seemingly gaining some resolve now, Jamie struggled more defiantly to free himself. Whether by his father¡¯s words, or the aspect of what his teammates would think¡ªbeing swallowed in his mother¡¯s arms like this, he broke off. He gazed at his father through sun-bleached slitted eyes, hungry for his father¡¯s approval.


    ¡°Good job J.,¡± John said, squeezing his son on the shoulder. ¡°Just one more half to go.¡±


    ¡°Did you see me save the first one?¡± Jamie asked.


    ¡°Oh, we all did mate. If I didn¡¯t know better, I¡¯d say you were showing off a little.¡± John pinched at his son¡¯s chest causing him to retreat a little in a fit of giggles. Shortly after, a whistle blew, and the game resumed.


    The game ended four goals to one, with Jamie not conceding any additional goals. The spectators roared their approval at their respected teams¡¯, Jamie¡¯s team we hailed for their victory while the defeated team cheered at simply a good game. Jamie ran, seemingly losing himself in his own pleasure. His friends and fellow teammates surrounded each other, all celebrating as clumsily as nine-year-olds could.


    John watched on, admiring his sons resolve in the face of adversity. When the celebrations were over John fully intended to treat his family to a meal at the ¡®Hungry Horse¡¯ downtown. He would even promise Jamie a fresh pair of goalie gloves after his amazing performance.


    ¡°Dad! Can we stay a little longer? Eric¡¯s dad bought him the new world cup football to play with.¡± Jamie asked, his face wrapped in excitement.


    ¡°Alright champ. Go play for a little bit, and afterwards, we can get some food at the Hungry Horse¡± John said.


    Jamie sped off like a racing horse let out the gate as if every minute with the new football counted. Angie wandered off to conform with a group of kids coagulating under a tree. This spurred John to admire one of the most magical aspects about children, how they often banded together into groups if left alone. While Angie assimilated with the children under the tree, John and Lucy found a patch of dry grass to sit on. The sun was fierce, making John wish he brought his baseball cap.


    ¡°How¡¯s that face feeling?¡± Lucy asked.


    ¡°Stop teasing me about it.¡± Answered John wishing he had another ice cream to soothe the itch.


    ¡°My poor baby.¡± Lucy mocked, pouting her lower lip. She raised a hand to touch the sunburn gently. Her hands were cool and comforting to his raw skin.


    ¡°We¡¯ll pop home and get some moisturiser for it. Maybe a hat too.¡±


    ¡°You know,¡± John said. ¡°I was just thinking the same thing.¡±


    He looked down at Lucy¡¯s legs which stretched out nakedly over the grass, her white skirt pulled low to the knees, and with it he felt something stir inside him. Lucy looked at him bashfully again, only this one not feigned.


    ¡°Take a picture, it¡¯ll last longer¡± She teased.


    ¡°Maybe I wanna do more than just look.¡± He answered.


    ¡°John Grimshaw!¡± She protested, and John ran a hand up her arm. Her skin was golden from the summer rays and smooth to the touch. He looked out at Jamie playing some distance away, between a field of moving bodies. He glanced at Angie who was now looking up a boy who had climbed said tree, and then he looked at Lucy, her blue eyes gleaming like some forgotten gemstone, and all was right in the world he thought.


    An hour later, John and lucy stood to leave. After brushing the back of her skirt, lucy called out to Angie while John waved over Jamie. They united and began leaving the field. Jamie ran ahead, kicking the all too important football between his friends. John grabbed his wife¡¯s hand and reached deeply for the car keys in his pocket.


    They were close to the car park now when the sound of tires screeching across gravel cut the air like a knife.


    Following this, was what John thought sounded like the cracking of a whip, then a thud. He looked up in time to see people ahead in the carpark freeze and all turn their heads towards the direction of the disturbance. Then a scream yelled out and those close to the noise all ran forward. John saw one man who had been busy packing the boot of his car freeze at the noise, then drop what he was doing to help whatever had happened.


    John felt his heart stop for a moment and looked around, anxiously scanning his surroundings. Angie had stopped walking behind him at the sudden sound. Lucy was squeezing John¡¯s hand and Jamie¡­where was Jamie?


    ¡°Jamie!¡± John cried out, waiting hopefully for him to jump out from behind a parked car, or for one of the many children in front of him to turn their head and reveal themselves to be his son.


    ¡°Jamie!¡± Lucy yelled, taking up the cry more defiantly before darting forward. The disturbance was hidden behind a multitude of cars and as Lucy ran, she stopped, her hands snapping up to her face when she saw. John dashed, moving his legs like pistons to get there, to see what Lucy saw.


    Around the bumper of a Ford lay a boy on the ground. The car that had hit him had come to a stop half over him, revealing only the top half of the boy underneath. Its driver side door was open, the driver recently departed. But most noticeable of all was the pink circle drawn on the windscreen. A circle with the shape and circumference of a football, or a child¡¯s skull.


    ¡°Oh God no, Oh God no¡­OH GOD NO! JOHN!¡± Lucy bellowed, her hands pulling frantically at her golden hair. John paused, letting his brain process the features of the boy caught beneath the car, the body still and lifeless.


    The boy wore a football kit and on each hand was a set of goalie gloves, their palms speckled with crimson. Under the boy¡¯s head, a red puddle was emerging and somewhere distant, a world cup football rolled mournfully down the road.

 Chapter 4 - Fade

    Chapter 4 - Fade


    John returned home after visiting his wife, forgetting momentarily that was why he originally went to the cemetery. That girl, the girl with the auburn hair and beanie hat, Jennifer. She had been there again. He glanced down at the palm of his right hand and saw the phone number written there, its ink now slightly smudging. By tomorrow the ink would be completely faded, perhaps Jennifer along with it.


    ¡°It¡¯s alright talking to you.¡± She had said to him when he got up to leave. Truth be told, the feeling was mutual.


    John realized then, just how rarely he talked to people these days, another thing that seemed to fade along with his wife. Lucy had been the one that had organized the friendly parties, BBQs, and Sunday church. Since her passing John secluded himself to voluntary confinement, like a turtle slowly retreating into its shell until at last it''s hidden from the world outside entirely. This state of solitude was comfortable to John, offering him a sense of freedom from any shackles of responsibility. He was responsible for himself and himself alone.


    Friends and neighbors did attempt to stay in touch, making appearances now and then, either to pass on their condolences or to reach out. But John quickly dealt with them almost clinically, as he purposely made the few brief interactions stale and boring, as if he were in a rush or in the middle of something important. After a while, the friends and neighbors that would visit regularly slowly faded away, leaving John to his solitary peace.


    John had begun cooking in his kitchen, watching the ink on his palm slowly fade away. Deep down he wanted to type the number in his phone, but a greater part stopped him. Putting a random eighteen-year-old girl number in your phone when you were in your prime of forty-two seemed wrong; it was wrong, right? Not only that, but John was a married man. What would Lucy think? But Lucy was gone and with her: she took the only social structure John sometimes relied on. He pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and added Jennifer¡¯s number.


    When he had added the number under the name ¡®Jennifer¡¯, he suddenly came to the disheartening conclusion that this might not be Jennifer¡¯s number. That the girl had played him falsely for some cheap prank. She had after all shown she was capable of tricks, and shamefully so. The image of her blue tongue jabbed out at him in his mind¡¯s eye, the taunt that would haunt him further still.


    Grimacing, he texted the number simply writing: John.


    If this was a ruse then whoever¡¯s number this one, albeit a sex line or otherwise¡ªwould simply get a name and nothing more. He thought about how many ''John¡¯s'' there were in his county, and felt a calming blanket beset him. Before the microwave signaled its gleeful climax after cooking his lamb hotpot, he received a reply. The phone buzzed noisily on the kitchen counter and chirped like a bird. Lifting the phone John read: Jennifer ;).


    Awkward relief washed over John and the microwave alerted him it was truly finished with another beeping signal. John took his meal and ate.


    Later that night, while John sat in the silence of his home feeling the walls slowly close in around him. He thought he heard something coming from the bathroom again. He muted the tv once more and despite the many tendrils of fear that slowly wrapped around his nerves like an octupus, another part of him--perhaps sadist part, yearned for the same phenomenon as yesterday. This time he would enter the bathroom entirely unafraid of what was on the other side. The silence drew out, the buzz from the tv being the only constant to break the absolute stillness.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    John stood, not taking his eye from the handle of the bathroom door twenty paces from him. At one point he thought he saw the door handle move but quickly realized it was only golden chrome reflecting some of the light from the tv; presenting the illusion. That is just what this whole thing was, an illusion, a mirage, something his mind was producing without his managerial sign-off upstiars in the logical department. Most likely, it was just an echo from the long annulated grieving process, nothing more. He took a step forward, hearing his slippers drag along the carpet. The door drew closer until eventually, John stood facing it.


    John was ready--hand on the handle. If even a water droplet fell from inside he would burst in, unmasking whatever lurked within. As if the thing on the other side read his thoughts, John heard the inviting noise of:


    ¡®Drip¡¯


    The sound hit him like a bullet and John turned the handle before his courage forake him. The door swumg violently open, revealing the bathroom in increments as the light spilled in. Sink, mirror, and bathtub uncovered themselves, all of them statues like the toys in ¡®Toy Story¡¯ whenever a human made an appearance. The toilet sat perfectly still and John for a fleeting moment thought whatever was in here had slivered behind the door. He went to peer around the door but putting his face into that encroaching darkness terrifed him. What if something was behind the door. What if he peered around to find it waiting for him; its hands already outstretched to snatch him, pull him into its embrace.


    He turned on the bathroom light feeling it not only fill the room with light, but also his heart with courage. He stepped in, checked behind the door--his hands sweaty but ready to punch if anything attacked. Nothing.


    ¡®Drip¡¯


    The noise came from behind, it waited until his back was turned and John whirled around to face whatever IT was. He saw with blinding sight a man, a pale man with dark circles for eyes looking dead at him, he let out a yell and¡­ realized it was his own reflection in the mirror. Fear, shock, and a little piss leaked out of him at the realization. He laughed nervously under his breath and rubbed at his temples; that was when the shower curtain moved.


    Looking up, he saw an elongated shadow standing inside the tub, nothing but the baby blue curtain to conceal it. Fear, shock, but not the piss, came rushing back into him like an electric shock. Something was in the tub, standing there, waiting for him. He wanted to flee but found he couldn¡¯t. He took some breaths, staring deeply into that shadow that stood idle. It was thin and tall, standing sideways as if part of the shower attachment. No, It WAS the shower attachment he told himself unconvincingly.


    ¡®You¡¯re going to peel back that curtain and it¡¯ll be the showerhead resting atop its frame.¡¯


    ¡®But how did the curtain move?¡¯ A sinsiter voice whispered to him, and for a moment he was not sure whether the whisper was in his mind, or the thing in the tub egging him on; reading his thoughts like a shade in some fantasy novel.


    He watched his hand reach up to grab the curtain. In one rapid swipe, he drew the curtain back as if unmasking a circus performance. For a terrifying moment, he thought he would reveal the thing that so many horror movies tried to depict. Something that would quite literally scare you to death, something that would make any living person''s hair turn to white simply at its sight.


    Inside was nothing but the showerhead and the frame that supported it. Assortment of shower gels, shampoos, and sponges arrangeed themselves like footsoldiers. As if to answer his previous dilemma, a gush of wind blew in through the small awning window above the tub, causing the curtain to dance merrily beside him. The wind kissed him with icy lips and John drew back the shower curtain forcefully.


    ¡°You¡¯re going crazy old man¡­you¡¯re going crazy,¡± He said to himself aloud, then realized that was what crazy people did: talk to themselves.


    John went to bed early that night, determined the extra sleep would put his mind at rest.

 Chapter 5 - Till Death Do Us Part

    Chapter 5 - Till death do us part


    Later that night while John¡¯s room was swallowed up by darkness. His room suddenly exploded in bright light, enough to startle John awake. A familiar buzz followed by the chirping of what sounded like a bird carried itself across the room. It was his mobile phone. He scowled, turning over in his slumber and attemting to transmute his faint consciousness back into dreams. He then realized how odd and queer it was for him to receive a text so late into the night. Truth be told, he hadn¡¯t received a text in months. The only person to contact him these days was Dr. Sternal and that was always by phone call. The notion that it could be anyone else skipped his mind entirely.


    Unable to scare away the curiosity, he rolled back over and reached for the handheld buzzer. He awoke the phone as unceremoniously as it had woken him; pushing every which button till the screen lit up temporarily blinding himself. Framing the little window on the screen reserved for highlighting text messages was the name: Jennifer.


    The time on his phone read three-thirty-four in the morning whcih sent a wave of irritation to crash against the pounding in his head. Opening the message, the abigious text read: ¡°W-u-u-2¡±


    John stared at the three-letter, one number message for some time. When he gave up, he replied: ¡°What?¡±


    The reply was almost instant and John could even see the symbol that notified you when the other person was typing.


    Jennifer: ¡°I forgot how old you were¡­What. Are. You. Up. Too?¡±


    Those waves of irritation came back for another assault, this one intent of bursting down the flood walls.


    John: ¡°Sleep. Ing.¡±


    No reply. No speech bubble to warn of an incoming text. Just the ''read'' notifcication that hung beneath the text.


    John: ¡°Are you okay?¡±


    Still no reply. John waited, typing out other texts in a similar vein to his most recent one without sending them. Then he realized with awkward horror; if Jennifer were watching from the other end she would be seeing him typing.


    Reluctantly he rolled over, attempting to banish the girl from his mind and return to blissful sleep. Two minutes passed. John¡¯s thoughts sunk deeper and deeper into that void that ultimately folded into sleep, then his phone did its symphony of: lighting up, buzzing, chirping, fading back to black. John snatched up the phone like a man seizing some infuriating alarm clock on a Monday morning.


    Jennifer: ¡°Can I come over?¡±


    The messaged stunned him for a moment. Here was a girl John had only just met yesterday, asking him if she could come over. Anxiety crept up into John like hot wires. After some consideration, John focused on his phone.


    John: ¡°What¡¯s happened?¡±


    Jennifer: ¡°Nothing, I just can¡¯t be at home right now.¡±Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    John: ¡°I don¡¯t think it¡¯s a good idea, Jennifer.¡±


    Jennifer: ¡°K¡±


    He felt bad, but what was he meant to do? Invite a eighteen-year-old girl over to his house? Worse, a eighteen-year-old girl he only met yesterday? No, no, he couldn¡¯t. But despite this rationality he found guilt still plaguing him long after the text was sent. Jennifer had reached out to him and he had turned her down. He didn¡¯t know what the girl was going through, seen as she was seldom liberal on information. John picked up his phone again to inquire further, then reconsidered...


    He lay awake for some time folding over Jennifer¡¯s potential motives. She wanted to come over yes, but to what end? Simply to sleep? Or was it something else, something less innocent? She knew he was a married man and if that obscene but still very real possibility was to play out. That same fantasy that both disgusted and excited John, well, he would shut it down. He was a married man who loved...still loves, rather, his wife. But what was the proverb? Till death do us part.


    No, no, John just hoped Jennifer was alright. Come the morning he would text her to make sure. If she needed someone to talk to, he could offer her that much. Anymore, and he would just have to tell her straight. He was old enough to be her father after all.


    Finally, he questioned the fact he might have it all wrong. Why had his seedy mind even put that fantasy there the first place? (and yes, that was what it was). This was a young woman he was talking about. The common likelihood was she simply needed a place to stay, nothing more; but why? She might have even looked to him as if a father figure. These thoughts chased John for most of the night making him dizzy until sleep mercifully came like some shepherd rescuing his flock from the a hungry predator.


    To John, it felt as though he had only just embraced sleep again when the alarm clock alerted him rudely it was time to wake up. That morning: John got up, showered, brushed his teeth, and went outside for his ritual morning smoke. The minty toothpaste and tobacco colliding in his mouth like two warring faction¡¯s intent on supremacy was unpleasant, and John  took a mental note he would brush his teeth after his cigarette, like he always had tomorrow. This morning, however, he found he drifted through the house doing his bodily functions and errands absently, his mind already allocated to a separate task; a task that required ALL his cognitive resources. He thought about Jennifer and hoped silently to himself she was okay.


    He texted Jennifer, knowing full well in the back of his mind she likely wouldn¡¯t reply till later in the day. If John knew one thing about today¡¯s youth it was that the morning didn¡¯t exist to them unless it was between the hours of twelve and four in the morning. He tried to call his daughter again, but was met with the constant ringing and evidently the voicemail that follows. He tried his daughter yet again while having his second smoke outside, feeling the goose prickles run up his back from the autumn chill. It would be winter soon and with it the icy temperatures John liked. The memory of a vicious sunburn back in the summer of 2001 floated before him, but John swatted it away like a man swatting away a bug.


    After surrendering the third attempt to call his daughter, he figured today he would instead go visit her. And if she refused to answer the door he would simply let himself in. He had a key to her place after all and he highly doubted she would have the willingness to change the locks. The idea of that possibility sent a further shiver to run up his spine, this one nothing to do with the cold. Guilt sank its sharpened teeth into him when he came to realize, he¡¯d seemingly had a stronger emotional tie to Jennifer, a girl he barely knew, than to his own daughter.


    With breakfast out of the way, John collected his things together. Jennifer still hadn¡¯t texted and by ten-thirty in the morning he threw on his jacket and grabbed his keys by the door. An enormous bright yellow figure consumed the shimmering glass on the door and John paused. The figure outside raised a fist and knocked. John answered pretty much immediately and was alarmed to see it was a set of police officers.


    The officers looked mournfully at John, both; respectfully removing their hats and frowning slightly. The male officer who was flanked by the female officer spoke first.


    ¡°Are you Mr. Grimshaw?¡± He asked. John nodded nervously.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid there¡¯s been an incident.¡± He added.


    And on that chilly morning, John Grimshaw was informed of his daughter¡¯s death.

 Chapter 6 - In the Summer of 2004

    Chapter 6 - In the Summer of 2004


    It was in the early summer of 2004 when John found himself driving down the M5 into Cornwall. Cornwall was one of the finer parts of Britain he thought. A place copied straight from the pages of Tolkien, where the fields are as vast as they are green, and the people live lives in quiet harmony; away from the fossil-fuelled fingers of pollution and loud city-living.


    It was June fourth, the BMW humming along restlessly down a stretch of motorway. Cars rocketed past the BM like smeared colours in a Van-Gogh oil painting. Every now and then, a sound like a jumbo jet taking off would scream past them as the wind-resistant cars overtook.


    It was cool, almost chilly, but the sky above was a canvas of pale blue without a single blemish. John looked over at his wife, her mind as seemingly absent as the clouds above.


    ¡°You alright babe?¡± John asked, stroking the narrow meat of her thigh. She was wearing a pair of faded jeans, the denim stitching turning to frost on the knees. Lucy turned, returning to the car from whatever distant plane she had been in, and smiled.


    ¡°Hmm, yeah.¡± She spoke.


    Now chewing on it, John considered how ridiculous the question was. His intentions were naively innocent of course, but how could she be alright? It had been three years since Jamie¡¯s death, true, but that hadn¡¯t seemed to dilute the fact this was their first time just together since it happened. This was the first time they had truly spent time¡ªjust the two of them, alone. The prospect both frightened and excited John. It was time to heal, to rebuild the marriage that was fragmented back in the summer of 2001.


    This two-week break to Cornwall would be just what they needed. Angie was staying with Lucy¡¯s grandparents, giving them plenty of opportunities to rekindle the love lost between them. He did not blame Lucy for her extended grief, quite the opposite. Frankly, he was simply happy she was no longer popping six pills a day. Pills conceived to help you fade away from reality, stop you searching. That was what grief was, the pursuit of something lost, admission to a question that cannot be answered. Where did they go? Will I ever see them again? Lord, O¡¯Lord, O¡¯Lord.


    Lucy had taken up a strong faith over the last year and despite John¡¯s skepticism at first, it seemed to be helping his wife. That vicar at the church, the one with the warm brown eyes that appeared like pools of smooth chocolate had helped her. John had even agreed to attend church with Lucy every Sunday, and by now, he had gotten used to her daily praying. John had tried praying himself once, more out of interest than actual belief. He half expected to hear God that night, and while Lucy slept, he knelt at the foot of the bed, too ashamed to do it openly, and heard¡­nothing. Not a single thing. His prayer felt like a pebble falling gracefully down into the depths of an abyss.


    To him, it was as if he was talking to only himself, to the voices in his own head. In some ways, he supposed that was what God was to some people, that voice that speaks up when you do something wrong, something right. Your conscience as some people would prefer to call it.


    Around Lucy¡¯s neck, dangling from a silver chain was an equally silver cross. A sign of sacrifice, but what had his son done to warrant such sacrifice? Moreover, to what end. The cross had become a simple addition to the chain-link of things different about his wife now.


    John¡¯s main conception was how time had acted differently on her compared to him. Time had worked on her, wore her down, aged her. John, however, had come to a certain harsh understanding early. Time does not run away without you, nor does it stop to allow you to catch your breath. It just carries on as always, eternally drifting beside you. Ultimately, the mind must simply admit what has happened and move on. Jamie was dead, and unlike a video game that might let you go back to a previous save file, events in life are final. No auto-saves or restarts, no takebacks, or reverse cards. Just...Game-over.


    That same pain they had both felt back in the summer of 2001 had slowly diminished for John, gently healing the same way an itchy wound might heal over time leaving behind nothing more than a tender scar. For his wife Lucy, the pain continued to bleed out and fester, contaminating all other aspects of her life. Angie could not cross a street without Lucy, Angie could not go out a play without Lucy. At one point, Lucy subjected her daughter to her room like some princess in a Disney movie, and any attempt John made to free his imprisoned daughter was met by the fanatic belief he was trying to get her killed. Back then the world was a place where children were chewed up and dispensed with, back then, John honestly thought he would wake up to find his wife dead, an empty bottle of pills still clutched in a stiffened hand. It was worse back then, not nearly as bad now. John gave Lucy¡¯s much thinner thigh another squeeze, she had lost over twenty pounds, twenty pounds she could hardly afford to lose, to begin with.


    After some traffic which resulted in a two-hour delay; seemingly some crash on the M5, they still managed to arrive at their destination at quarter to three; credited mainly to their early departure from home. It was a long drive and John could feel the folded muscle in his legs begin to scream their distress.


    The ¡®Short Oaks¡¯ lodging camp was just the location where the two of them could relax in solemn peace. It was a small holiday venue, housing a respectable dozen log cabins. The smell of pine and freshly cut timber rode the air like a smelly hitchhiker. As John got out of his car stretching the knots in his legs, he was immediately approached by one of the staff members, his black polo shirt bearing the ¡®Short Oak¡¯ insignia. The man wore shorts, revealing thick tree trunk legs that probably matched the trees he inevitably cut here. His smile was that of a man who was genuinely pleased to see outsiders, city folk who had come to take the purge from modern life.


    ¡°Good afternoon!¡± The man said holding out a calloused palm to John. John pumped it, as did Lucy when it was offered, albeit less confidently.


    ¡°I take it you have one of our cabins booked?¡± he went on.


    ¡°Yes,¡± answered John, unfolding the documentation he had printed off at home. The documents had been riding in his back pocket and John had to fold the paper open several times. At last, he handed it over.


    ¡°Ahhh, you¡¯re staying in The Beaver.¡± The man said cheerily. John and Lucy looked at him perplexed. The man looked up catching the puzzled looks on their faces.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    ¡°Cabin twelve over there.¡± He clarified, pointing behind them. They both turned to see a cabin barely visible behind a grove of foliage. Chickens wandered freely around the camp, giving John the feeling that he truly was not in Kansas anymore as the saying goes.


    ¡°We gave the cabins names after we made them,¡± the man went on. ¡°Number twelve we called ¡®The Beaver¡¯. I got her all cleaned up and ready for you. You just go ahead and start unpacking your things and I¡¯ll get you guys the key.¡±


    ¡°Cheers,¡± John said.


    John raised the boot of his car, feeling the trapped heat inside hit him like an oven. He took the heavier bags leaving the lighter ones for Lucy who seemed to be smiling now and made his way to cabin twelve. He climbed the wooden steps that were so strongly elevated that he struggled slightly. The cabin looked authentic on the outside but through its double-glazed windows, John saw a television hanging from the wall and a modern kitchen to boot.


    Lucy gasped when she saw the outdoor hot tub that had been built, its engine motor humming peacefully as it heated the water within. Foam bubbles rose like some volcanic eruption, filling the surrounding air with the scent of chlorine.


    ¡°There you are.¡± Said the member of staff when he returned, handing Lucy the key to the cabin. ¡°If you need anything be sure to ask. I¡¯m usually about the place working, but you can find the reception at the front there if not.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± John said.


    They entered the cabin which smelled strongly of earth and carpet cleaner. John absorbed it all like a sponge. Inside they discovered a bottle of wine on the table¡ªwhite wine which neither he nor Lucy liked but the sentiment did its job well enough, along with a welcoming letter to Short Oaks where they wished you a happy stay. Besides the letter sat a ledger that housed the scribbling of all the recent occupants. Inside, the recent stayers wrote how they found their vacation, as well as the stuff they had encountered. Lucy translated these readings with great interest while John unpacked.


    ¡°Thank you for the pleasant stay,¡± Lucy announced reading an entry. ¡°We were visited by ''Tommy'' the cat in the morning. Who we shared breakfast with ¡®shouldn¡¯t that be whom?¡¯ Lovely place and great staff!¡±


    John listened, absently unpacking the towels he brought into the bathroom. A standalone shower stood adjacent to a wooden bathtub giving John the amusing dilemma that this cabin was trying to be two separate things at once. Modern housing wrapped up in primal packaging.


    ¡°I wonder if this cat is still alive John?¡± he heard Lucy call from the main living room. ¡°This entry is dated August last year?¡±


    ¡°Could be babe. Suppose we¡¯ll find out when I start cooking some bacon in the morning.¡± John answered. He would need to buy the bacon first, but the website said there was a Morrison¡¯s supermarket twenty minutes out of camp. He would go there to buy some supplies, food, and alcohol. He was not sure whether Lucy would drink on this holiday, drinking was never really her thing, even after the accident when it could have been warranted.


    John wagered he would likely find his wife¡¯s head buried in a paperback more often than not, something he was completely fine with that. Whatever place Lucy wanted to visit on this trip, be it one of Cornwall¡¯s beautiful beaches or a place only accessed through the portal of a book John didn¡¯t care, this trip was hers.


    They split up that day, John making a solo dash to the Morrison¡¯s while Lucy continued to unpack. John had to resist the urge to buy a pack of cigarettes on his visit, knowing full well; holiday or not, the cancer sticks wouldn¡¯t be welcome in the presence of Lucy. After completing his shop, John returned to ¡®The Beaver¡¯ to find Lucy playing with the television on the wall. She heard John enter, momentarily startled by his entry¡ªanother one of those additional differences in Lucy now.


    ¡°Hey babe, everything okay?¡± John asked dropping a crate of Heineken on the kitchen work surface.


    ¡°John, they have like over a hundred channels on this thing,¡± Lucy said. John wanted to make a joke about the enormous dish that hung from the cabin like some robotic tick but hesitated, instead he smirked smugly at her.


    ¡°Only the best for my girl.¡±


    Lucy sent him one of her bashful smiles, a smile he had not seen in¡­three years? It was enough to make his face feel like it was on fire. Tears were forming behind his eyes unbeckoned. Lucy was returning bit by bit. John held back the momentary assault of emotion that wanted to display itself on his face, instead, he ducked behind to counter to wipe up a mess that wasn¡¯t there. He didn¡¯t want Lucy to see him like this, see the obvious relief on his face simply at the fact his wife could still muster a smile after all this time.


    When he rose, Lucy was there beside him. It was enough to make John jump. She seemed to have almost floated to him, her twenty-pound lighter frame and shoeless feet made her movement match that of a spirit. John looked at his wife and drowned in her blue eyes. He felt her fingers run themselves through his salting hair, a touch so electric from years of absence. A kiss found his lips; so tender John had to close his eyes to feel it. Then Lucy¡¯s arms were around his neck and the two of them swayed, drifting side to side like in some teenage prom event.


    John began to cry. Tears rushed full force like the opening of a dam; a dam that had remained out of commission for over three years. In response, John began to feel the hot tears from Lucy dissolve into his shirt, but unlike all the previous times, he was happy his wife was crying. They were letting it out together. They were crying out their pain the same way one might squeeze out the water from a heavy sponge.


    A man controls his emotions John believed. He locks them in a box and throws away the key. Lucy had become that key, and after what could have been a minute, maybe an hour. Lucy withdrew, her perfume light blue withdrawing with her. Her face was wet with tears but despite this, she still smiled and looked every bit as beautiful to John.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry John. For being the way I have.¡± She wiped away a wet streak with the palm of her hand.


    ¡°Hey shh, shh,¡± John said pulling her in again. The comment rocked him, and all the previous resentment he never knew he harbored for Lucy melted away into a fine mist, and blew away. A complete reset. He rested his chin on the top of her head feeling his shirt become wet from her ongoing sobs.


    ¡°Everything¡¯s going to be okay babe.¡± He said, stroking her hair and filling himself with her scent. ¡°I love you.¡±


    ¡°I love you too,¡± Lucy muffled gripping the fabric on his back tightly.


    They made love that night. The primal ritual was almost abandoned entirely in the recent three years. Afterward, John lay awake staring at the ceiling, knowing full well his seed would not flourish on the account of Lucy being on the pill. He had seen the pills in her bedside draw when looking for his Rolex. Those pills seemed to look up at him as if caught in the act of doing something naughty. Some of the pills were missing and John remembered that feeling of ultimate sadness at the discovery. She would not present him with anymore children, for they brought an unbroken pain that murdered parents.


    Lucy slept in his arm, her chest gently rising and falling in that therapeutic rhythm pleasant to all human-beings lucky enough to experience it. He squeezed her tightly.


    ¡°I love you.¡± He wanted to shout but settled for the whisper. The silent room seemed to listen, a cat wailed outside.

 Chapter 7 - The Man in the Pinstripe Suit

    Chapter 7 - The Man in the Pinstripe Suit


    John Grimshaw stood inside the Greenway Cemetery for the third time this month. The first time he had visited Michael Pratt, the second his wife, and now, on the third day in November, John entered the cemetery to visit his daughter and last living relative; excluding second cousins and in-laws. In what world would God make such a world for man? Where he''d be forced to bury the two women he loved most. And all within the same month¡­Why God, why, oh why, oh why.


    Angelina¡¯s grave was no more than a mound, her freshly laid soil looked nothing moreto John than like an anthill. Flowers surrounded that anthill in a vibrant collage of colours, each one of the donors seemingly unaware that Angie only liked daffodils. The type she used to pick as a child and hold up under her chin to see if she liked butter.


    John placed the bundle of daffodils he purchased down and seated himself opposite the grave on the bench: ''There you are kiddo'' A cigarette found itself in his hand, but before John could light up, a shadow swallowed him.


    ¡°Good evening sir,¡± Said a voice as clean and crisp as a jazz band melody. John looked up to notice the man casting the enormous shadow was everything but large. Looking down at him was a man with bright eyes, dark skin, and gleaming white teeth. His eyes were pale diamonds as if one day they shone like blazing meteors. Now, however, they seemed to have depleted into nothing more than chips of ice.


    ¡°May I sit?¡± he asked through his set of immensely white teeth and accented voice. John nodded hoping against hope this man wasn¡¯t about to try and sell him something. Something about the man threw him off; whether it be his gleaming smile, open approach, his suit, or the obsidian bowler hat he wore to cover what John expected to be a shiny bald head, he wasn¡¯t sure. The man on a whole looked to be plucked straight out of the reboot of The Matrix, this one featuring no good actors and a tenth of the originals budget.


    The man stood there a while strangly¡ªall one-hundred and forty pounds of him, as if waiting for someone else to move from the empty seat next to John? John looked over to the seat next to him, wondering for a moment whether there was something nasty on the seat, something that would cause the man to hesitate, but there wasn¡¯t. Just an empty seat. John looked up at the man scrupulously, trying to figure out whether he had a screw loose when the man sat down and...nodded to the open air beside him? All the while that large beaming smile was still tattooed across his face unable to fade.


    ¡°Thank you.¡± He said to no one in particular, his eyes peering out ahead. John picked up the fresh scent of daffodils that seemed to ferment from the man, and like some mediocre magician, he pulled a set of brightly coloured daffodils from the inside of his baggy suit jacket. Yellow burst from his jacked like an exploding sun and the man buried his face in the flower¡¯s scents.


    ¡°Been smelling these all week John.¡± The stranger said. It took John a heartbeat before he realized the man knew his name. He looked at the man inquisitively.


    ¡°Do I know you?¡±


    The man didn¡¯t respond but continued to smile at the open-air before them. Seconds stretched out between them as uncomfortably as nails running down a blackboard until at last the man¡¯s face dropped.


    ¡°No, I¡¯m afraid not.¡± He said reluctantly. ¡°And this next part is usually the part that convinces me to stop trying.¡±


    John was looking at the man intently trying to read what this man was up to. He was not just odd but filled with some unseeable knowledge or pain John did not obtain himself, like a man forced to keep a dark secret from the rest of the world.


    ¡°Stop trying what?¡± John asked, keeping the irritation from his tongue.


    The man finally turned to face him. Those faded blue eyes looking ready to flood.


    ¡°To try and help people John. My name is Gabriel Walker¡±


    The man held out a hand between them, John took it, unable to notice how long the man¡¯s fingers were; John¡¯s mother would have called them piano fingers.


    ¡°I¡¯d have introduced myself, but you seem to already know,¡± John said forcing the grip between them to become tighter. This seemed to only extend Gabriel¡¯s smile, any more and that smile would become terrifying rather than spectacular.


    ¡°I best tell you now Gabriel. I¡¯m not interested in anything you might be selling, or peddling. Quite frankly, if that¡¯s what you do here in this graveyard, I¡¯d take out some life insurance.¡± John added.


    Gabriel broke his teeth apart to chuckle, high and mightily as if John just told the best joke on this earth. He held Gabriel¡¯s hand a moment longer then let go. Without looking away, Gabriel nodded at him then stood. John watched as he placed his bundle of daffodils on Angie¡¯s grave delicately, then return to his seat.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°You seem like a straight-road type of guy Mr. Grimshaw. So, I won¡¯t waste either of our time. What I''m about to say might sound odd, perhaps...antagonistic.¡± John didn¡¯t respond, he wanted to let the man continue. ¡°I know your daughter Angelina.¡±


    The choice of words, primarily being the word ¡®know¡¯ didn¡¯t cross John¡¯s mind who only sat there and began to light up his cigarette, absently listening and waiting for the punchline, some offer to join a church, or cult. Did the vicar put Gabriel up to this? It would make sense on the account he didn¡¯t get on with the Vicar much these days, any days for that matter. Initially, the friction between John and the vicar evolved when his wife spent more time at the church than at home. This was after she was diagnosed with cancer, and whatever that vicar offered Lucy, John could not. Gabriel did afterall dress like one of them too, with his pinstripe suit and proper manner.


    ¡°M¡¯kay,¡± John said through lips cradling a cigarette. ¡°I¡¯m afraid she never mentioned you, Gabriel. How long did you know her for?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve only recently known her,¡± Gabriel said with utmost clarity, capturing every word carefully. ¡°Since her passing.¡±


    John paused, cigarette dangling loosely from his upper lip. He felt hot blood flood his body the way it did before the rage. Gabriel had been watching him intently and rose with such rapid speed, John guessed he had retreated in this fashion before on more than one occasion.


    ¡°I know how this sounds Mr. Grimshaw,¡± Gabriel said trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice, but it was too late, his body had already forsaken him and made his fear clear enough.


    ¡°If you¡¯ll allow me to explain. Angie warned me about something. Something I need you¡ª¡±


    John stood up, a man possessed as his hands balled into fists. Fresh grief toook over and he was upon Gabriel before he could retreat a single yard.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you ever call her Angie,¡± John spat without understanding how Gabrial knew her by that name. He gripped Gabriels blazer. Gabriel¡¯s slimness gave him much more material to grab and for a fleeting moment John wanted to lift him up into the air; he knew he could if he dared, and the option danced before him seductively. John gritted his teeth, crushing the filter in his mouth, and somewhere in his mind, he was aware of a voice.


    ¡®You¡¯re losing your temper, John. People are watching.¡¯


    It was his wife¡¯s voice, Lucy¡¯s. With the sudden lapse into sanity, he threw Gabriel away attempting to create as much space between him and Gabriel as possible, exactly like he had with Rose, only this time he threw his target instead of retreating away, sending Gabriel sprawling across the grass. The bowler hat that was nested on his head rolled off, merrily spinning like a coin trapped in a loop.


    Then Gabriel must have said something, or at least John assumed it was him. He was unable to hear it properly. Gabriel landed hard on his back, his broomstick legs arching upwards to the clouded sky above, he flipped over onto his stomach, apparently anxious to retrieve his hat which still rolled around on the circle of its rim.


    ¡°I fucked her till she bled!¡± A voice called out. It sounded distorted as if being shouted underwater. John looked around completely in shock, only now aware of the cemetery surrounding him. People were watching, a woman tapped her husband on the shoulder and the man looked up with protective interest. They seemed to hear that voice too. John looked back at Gabriel who was covering his bald head with the bowler hat. John exhaled heavily, feeling his own wave of anxiety wash over him. He¡¯s lost his temper and that voice? It had chilled his blood and John realized it wasn¡¯t Gabriel that spoke it or any of the people around him.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry Mr. Grimshaw. Truly I am.¡± Gabriel said as if no physical confrontation had just occurred. John spat out the cigarette filter still clinging to his mouth. The rest of the cigarette was on the ground, it must have fallen during the sudden attack. With deep sorrowing horror John realized he had lunged partly over Angie¡¯s graveyard to get at Gabriel. Broken flower-stems and petals lay strewn across the soft dirt.


    He could see the gentlemen that had been alerted to their ruckus begin to approach. Thankfully while John was picking up his broken cigarette Gabriel rescued him.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± Gabriel said warmly to the investigating bystander. ¡°Just a misunderstanding.¡±


    John did not look up while he retrieved his broken smoke from the ground, too ashamed to look at anyone in the eye after his bout with rage. He knelt and began tidying up his daughter¡¯s grave, moving the petals and aligning the broken stems when that familiar shadow eclipsed him again.


    It was Gabriel, only this time he was holding out a card.


    ¡°Please call me when you¡¯re ready. I will pay for your lunch and if you do not believe me or don¡¯t want to believe me. I¡¯ll respectfully leave you alone forever Mr. Grimshaw. But know this: I believe lives are at stake. You wont understand now, but you will in time if you give me a chance...Please Mr. Grimshaw.¡±


    John felt another wave of hot anger rush through him at the sight of that ¡®business card¡¯ hanging in his face. Something about the gesture however seemed genuine, so John snatched the card. Not knowing whether he¡¯d take it home or simply toss it on the ground the moment Gabriel left. All he wanted right now was to clean up the mess he had made on his daughter¡¯s grave.


    When John had finished tossing the loose petals in a nearby bin, he realized Gabriel had disappeared. If not for the perfectly flat card in his pocket, John might have convinced himself he imagined the man. He looked at it intently.


    Gabriel. J. Walker


    Mystic


    John flipped the card over and read a phone number and email address. His hand went to flick the card away, but some observing judge over his shoulder caused him to simply hold onto it.

 Chapter 8 - Gabriel. J. Walker

    Chapter 8 - Gabriel. J. Walker


    John awoke the following day to the sound of lawnmowing. His neighbor, Roger Culling¡¯s liked two things and two things only: washing his car, and mowing his lawn. This morning it seemed to be latter despite the cloudy forecast John saw through his window. John crawled out of bed, the delirium of sleep still clinging to him like a fresh cold, and went into his bathroom to relieve himself. The memory of yesterday seemed like a distant and fragmented dream. But as the delirium faded, John heard the smooth voice of Gabriel echo in his mind.


    ¡®Been smelling these all week John¡¯


    Gabriel knew his name? And what on earth did he mean when he said that. He had been so perplexed by his approach, so stubbornly suspicious he was trying to sell him something, that most of what Gabriel had said simply washed over him.


    He waited until he had finished his smoke outside before brushing his teeth then went into the living room. He let the tv hum its presence in the background while he cooked¡ªall the while Gabriel took residence in his mind like some squater in an abandoned building. Today, was the fifth day after his daughter death and the first day his mind was comprised of anything but her. After he had done cooking his bacon sandwich, forgetting this time to add his brown sauce¡ªwhich he usually poured religiously; he went into his bedroom to search for the card Gabriel handed him, half-expecting it to no longer be there, or rather, never have been there to begin with. The trousers he wore that day when meeting Gabriel lay in a washing basket meaning John had to fish them out among the rest of his laundry helter-skelter.


    Inside the creased slacks, he found a slightly creased card reading: Gabriel J Walker, Mystic. John went back into the living room and ate his breakfast in front of the tv. He considered or rather wanted: to throw the card away once and for all but couldn¡¯t. It was as if Gabriel in some benign and illogical way, was the last thread he had to his daughter. This realisation made him feel sick and he quickly determined this was likely how these mystics and psychics got you hooked. By seeding these deceitful thoughts into you young, when the grief was still hot and fresh.


    I mean, there he was not four days from mourning his daughter when a man, introduces himself and uses his daughter''s name: Angie. The name only he had ever called her¡­


    ¡®You¡¯re grieving old man. Trying to find the answer you want, not the answer you need.¡¯


    Following that logic, he scrunched up the card and tossed it, aiming for the bin but hitting the wall instead. Didn¡¯t matter, he would slam-dunk it home in due time. Tucking into his now cold sandwich, he watched the muted tv absently, his mind as thick and cloudy as the weather outside. Several minutes later, John scooped up the card and called the number on the back.


    *


    John had agreed to meet Gabriel that very day, and as if the sky itself was thankful, it wept tears of acidic rain. Fat droplets assaulted the window overlooking his neighbor¡¯s house. John wondered what Roger Culling¡¯s would be doing now that his car was receiving a free carwash and his lawn already mowed. After a millisecond of consideration, John concluded he didn¡¯t really give a fuck and left his house.


    They had agreed to meet at a cosy caf¨¦ in the shopping center near John¡¯s house. The caf¨¦ in question was known simply as ¡®Henrys''. The types of food there could be smelled riding in the air as you approached. A person with a keen nose could guess the thirteen courses simply by breathing in deep near the cafe. Eight of the thirteen courses were variants of the same burger and chips combo, the only difference being the level of cholesterol you wanted on top of the burger.


    Before John entered the caf¨¦ at four-thirty that afternoon, he peered in through the plexiglass allowing himself one last chance to turn around and abandon this foolish notion that Gabriel was anything more than a con-artist. The bell above the caf¨¦ door rang as John passed beneath it.


    ¡°Just one?¡± said the waitress behind a chest-high counter. Her hair was held up in a mist of hairspray and her uniform was nothing more than a casual blouse. John missed the words as they flowed over his head as he stared at the women dumbfounded.


    ¡°Urh¡ª¡±


    ¡°Do you need a big table?¡± the woman persisted, the lines on her face projecting impatience.


    ¡°Erm no,¡± John managed, still wondering what exactly he was doing here. ¡°I¡¯m meeting someone, he might already be here. A bla¡ª¡± He trailed off remembering how ¡®PC¡¯ the world had become. How outlining a person''s skin colour was just as reprimandable as being a full-blown Nazi.


    Truly struggling now, John simply cast his eyes over the interior of the caf¨¦ and saw the man he was after. At the back, behind the arrangement of tables suited of larger groups was Gabriel Walker. He was sitting behind a single table facing the entrance of the caf¨¦. Opposite Gabriel was a singular seat undoubtedly for him.


    Gabriel bared his bright white teeth and gestured. John, momentarily relieved to be rescued from his current social encounter, waved back and smiled. The waitress, seemingly weighing up the obvious only gave him a menu board and returned to her station.


    ¡°Good evening Mr. Grimshaw,¡± Gabriel said raising and holding out a hand. John reluctantly saw the broken thread running down Gabriel¡¯s jacket; the thread he broke manhandling him the other day. Gabriel gestured for John to sit and John complied.


    They both ordered a cheeseburger with chips and coffee. Gabriel ordered a tall hot chocolate, which he laced with extra sugar when it arrived. No cash or cards were exchanged, a testament to the old-school caf¨¦s alike, where you paid at the end of the meal not before. A level of trust less frequently seen these days, but a pleasant gesture of communal trust between customer and service provider.


    ¡°I¡¯m happy you¡¯ve come today Mr. Grimshaw,¡± Gabriel said.


    ¡°Please, just call me John.¡± He insisted, Mr. Grimshaw made him feel old and awkward.


    Gabriel seemed to smile at that. As if some invisible bridge had been built between the two of them in an instant. The food came and Gabriel smiled pleasantly at the waitress. He looked at the food as if he hadn¡¯t eaten such a bounty in weeks. If John were a betting man, he wouldn¡¯t have betted against that possibility.


    The two men talked a while, as commonly as if they were two people meeting each other for the tenth time. Gabriel cleaned much of his plate before John had even taken a bite from his burger. Then John asked the question that was on his lips from the start. The question lingered around them like a bad smell.


    ¡°You said you know Angie,¡± He asked, ignoring the sick-inducing part of ¡®know¡¯.


    Gabriel stopped eating, knowing it was time for him to talk about the subject that last got him throttled. John saw his Adams apple do a visual backflip in his throat. Gabriel cleared it audibly then wiped his lips, not looking up.


    ¡°Perhaps, it would make things clearer if I told you a short story. About me and why I said the things I said the other day.¡±


    Gabriel looked up sheepishly, his faded blue eyes looking close to leaking out more colour at a moment¡¯s notice. For the first time, John felt sorry for him. It reminded him of the same baggage a recovering addict carries or perhaps a divorced man that lost his kids in a civil suit.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°There¡¯s no easy way to say it, so I¡¯ll just go ahead and say it outright. Lord knows I¡¯ve been laughed at enough for it to harm me anymore. God blesses those that speak truly does he not.¡±


    ¡®If he exists at all¡¯ John thought but kept silent.


    Gabriel sucked in air and John leaned forward, anticipating the oncoming declaration.


    ¡°I have a sight,¡± he said flatly, ¡°I can sense dead people, sometimes see them. No¡ª¡± He added seeing the expression form on John¡¯s face. ¡°Not like some clich¨¦ movie you might have seen, but really. I can see dead people. And after they fade, I can still sometimes sense them.¡±


    John paused, watching the anxious wrinkles on Gabriel¡¯s face remain taught and sincere. He looked at Gabriel intently, as if Gabriel had just told him easter bunnies were real and really did lay chocolate eggs. If a person in the twenty-first century says he can see dead people, he or she is usually shipped off to where the rooms are lined with cushions. Gabriel took a sip from his hot chocolate and let the declaration hang in the air for a while, letting it slowly seep in.


    John reclined back, waiting for Gabriel to show the slightest sign of deception. But Gabriel only sat there like a beaten puppy. Staring at John with his faded blue eyes.


    ¡°Gabriel,¡± John said at last. ¡°Look, I can respect it if you think you can see dead people. Hell, you might even believe you can see dead people. But you can¡¯t. It¡¯s not possible.¡±


    John said this, feeling the sinews of anger wash away into pity. He had no doubt whatsoever Gabriel believed what he said, but he would not confirm or further indulge Gabriel¡¯s delusions.


    Gabriel¡¯s face churned down into disappointment, undoubtedly hoping John would be the first to fully believe him. As his face melted like wax on a candlestick he said:


    ¡°I¡¯m not crazy.¡±


    John grimaced.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯re crazy. But I¡¯m too old and wise to start believing in mystics and psychics. I saw a lot of them on tv. My wife used to think they were nothing but phonies and she was a woman that believed Jesus turned water into wine. Myself, however, you¡¯ll sooner convince me Santa Clause is real than any mystical claim ghosts exist.¡±


    ¡°Those people your wife saw on tv are indeed phonies,¡± Gabriel said matter of factually. ¡°Those of us that truly have the sight keep ourselves secret in this ever-skeptical world. Those that publicly brandish themselves on tv are phonies through and through. But where do you think the source material came from John? Just like stereotypes, there is a grain of truth hidden among the sea of falsehood. I am that grain of truth. I¡¯ll clarify again: I¡¯m not a liar or a crazy person John.¡±


    Gabriel was speaking higher now, with sharpened stubbiness. John cast an anxious look over his shoulder. The caf¨¦ stretched out behind him in a constant buzz of comforting chatter.


    ¡°Okay,¡± John said. ¡°Explain to me how that¡¯s possible then.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not completely sure but I think it¡¯s at least tied to genetics to some degree,¡± Gabriel answered. ¡°My grandfather had the sight. It was my grandmother, however, that guided me through my childhood. She was aware of my grandfather¡¯s sight, and when she discovered I had it too, she helped me. If it weren¡¯t for her, I¡¯d probably be dead, locked up, or jacked up on pills by a mental doctor.¡±


    John felt a part of him become captivated by Gabriel. More intrigued by how deep this nonsensical rabbit hole would go. That same part of him that controlled whether he took the card from Gabriel yesterday was back, the part that stopped him from throwing the card in the bin, the part that called the number on the back; that part was now in full control and tapped in. It wanted to know more, needed to know more. Gabriel was no longer a man, but a potential. An avenue into someplace else, a place where his wife lived. Despite himself, he found himself listening intently, gazing into Gabriel¡¯s eyes as if they were portals.


    ¡°At first when I was a little kid,¡± Gabriel went on. ¡°No older than four. I would sometimes point at the people over my mom¡¯s shoulder. The people with the big ¡®boo-boos¡¯ on them I used to say. My mom thought I was just being a silly kid of course, like silly kids do. She would look over her shoulder into the open-air and snap back saying ¡®There¡¯s no boo-boo there¡¯. I would laugh. I didn¡¯t understand at that age. Then I realized the people I saw, no one else did. And sometimes the boo-boos were bad. Bad enough to scare me something firece as a kid. I once saw a man with half his face missing walking around my school, he peered in the classroom one time, aware that I could see him, and waved...I screamed so loud the teacher thought I¡¯d gone mad. They chalked it up to behavioral issues¡ªask my mother if everything was okay at home.¡±


    The waitress walked by and Gabriel shushed, his face as withdrawned. John sipped at his coffee and felt the caffeine slowly turn the invisible cogs in his brain. Gabriel looked up, smiled.


    ¡°My grandmother though. She knew. She told me in private after that classroom incident. Told me to never tell anyone, not even my own mother what I saw. She told me to come to her if I needed to, and to look away next time. You see, my grandfather had it as I mentioned. It took ten years of marriage before he finally opened up to her. Before he old her about his sight. He died before I was born from alcohol poisoning. A story for another time perhaps.¡± Gabriel looked up at the first white, now cr¨¨me coloured clock on the wall beside them. The fingers read five-twenty-five, and the caf¨¦ would be closing soon.


    ¡°I¡¯ll make this quick and try and leave out any unnecessary details John. It¡¯s a lot to unpack and quite frankly I¡¯d rather not unpack everything.¡±


    John nodded and took another sip of his coffee now cooling to room temperature.


    ¡°I¡¯ve seen dead people for as long as I remember. Probably since I was born, although I can¡¯t much remember being a baby. I see them until they fade, then it gets a little more complicated.¡±


    ¡°Fade?¡± John asked.


    ¡°Yes. All dead people fade John. Where too I don¡¯t know, so I''ll save you question. I only know the extra jigswaw piece. I don¡¯t think anyone knows, sight or no sight. Most people stick around for a few days, usually two or three days, you know--just to let their loved ones know they are still around. Then they dance and eventually fade.¡±


    John fought to keep the mouthful of coffee in his mouth. He choked down a swallow, Gabriel watching him as immovable as a statue.


    ¡°Dance?¡± John asked, ¡°What like the waltz?¡±


    ¡°Precisely. Although I¡¯ve only seen the waltz once in my lifetime.¡± Gabriel smiled unashamedly.


    John felt his head spin, unconvinced it had anything to do with the caffeine in his system. People didn''t dance. When they died, they died. No resets, respawns, reverse cards, nothing. The thought of dead people dancing before they faded away gave John an image he¡¯d sooner forget. There was something morbid yet at the same time comical about the idea.


    ¡°My grandmother seemed to think that if life was a dance, why shouldn¡¯t death be one too,¡± Gabriel interjected, seeing the troubled look on John¡¯s face.


    ¡°How do they dance?¡± John found himself asking, absently looking into the pool of brown liquid in his coffee mug. That part of him, was taking control of his vocals. He vividly imagined a graveyard full of ghosts doing the waltz.


    ¡°That usually depends on their temperament, I suppose. Most are slow, methodical, elegant even. Others are more¡­aggressive.¡± Gabriel said and that sorrowful look he sometimes wore revealed itself again, ¡°They never dance alone either. Something watches th¡ª¡±


    ¡°--Closing in ten minutes guys!¡± came the shout from over John¡¯s shoulder. John jumped slightly at the waitress¡¯s sudden announcment. John looked up and saw it was past half five.


    ¡°Please excuse me a moment,¡± Gabriel announced raising. John sat at the table alone, digesting the information Gabriel had shared, unaware by now of its bizarreness. Dreamily he noticed Gabriel attend the counter and pay for the food they had eaten. The payment was stretched out by the fact Gabriel was paying in coins and not notes. The people all around the caf¨¦ were rising now and putting back on their many coats and scarves. It would be Halloween soon and with it, the air outside would carry a harsher winter bite with every passing day.


    When Gabriel was done paying, he gave the waitress one of his white smiles and returned. John felt a beat of shame at Gabriel buying his food, considering so far how he had treated this man. However, the very real probability that Gabriel was still a conman tempered his guilt slightly.


    ¡°Perhaps we could talk outside a moment as well John. I didn¡¯t invite you just to give you my life stories.¡± Gabriel said happily as if that great baggage he was carrying was now slightly lighter.


    ¡°No, of course not. I uh¡ªI could have paid for myself you know.¡± He said, feeling around his back pocket to confirm he remembered his wallet.


    ¡°No, I promised to pay for your time John and I meant it. You¡¯re the first person that has listened to me in¡­well an age.¡±


    John gave him an awkward ¡®you¡¯re welcome¡¯ smile and the two left the caf¨¦ together. On the way-out Gabriel waved pleasantly to the staff before holding the door open from another patron. John watched Gabriel, truly observing him for the first time. The bowler hat Gabriel wore looked as old and worn as time itself. Much like his pinstripe suit, the stitching on the hat looked flailed in some places, giving John the impression it could have belonged to Gabriel¡¯s grandfather, perhaps, great-great-grandfather. In fact, when exactly were bowler hats even invented?

 Interlude - Gabriel (1/3)

    Interlude: Gabriel. J. Walker ¨C Liverpool¡ª2004


    ¡°It¡¯s okay Gabe honey, close your eyes.¡± His grandmother''s voice called to him. Gabe felt her soft hand lay protectively on his shoulder. She was driving. Gabe had removed his seatbelt urgently to lay facing the caramel brown leather on the backseat. Outside was a bad one.


    His grandmother needn¡¯t question why her grandson had shifted so fiercely in the backseat after crossing the Waterloo bridge, where traffic had wound down to an almost crawl. An entire lane of the bridge was sectioned off. Police cars lined one side; an ambulance sat restlessly, its blue lights pulsing like that of a beating heart. They were looking for the ¡®jumper¡¯ Gabe knew because: if they had had the same sight as him, they would see her standing there beside them, her face broken and caved in.


    Did she see me? His only thought was. It was difficult to tell given the fact Gabe saw no eyes buried that ruin ahead. He hoped to high heaven the dead thing didn¡¯t notice him. The dead things always took an interest in him. He wasn¡¯t exactly sure why? Maybe it was so they didn¡¯t feel so alone, caught between this world and the next. They always seemed to understand; to know Gabe could see them. And while the dead ignored the living, they seemed to be drawn to Gabe like lonely ships in the night seeking refuge.


    Before Gabe could dive down to stare at the plain caramel leather, he had seen the damage a fall from such a height did to a person. He saw with blinding clarity how the head broke inwards, bursting all its content from an exit rupture at the top of the skull. Eyes, nose, even mouth were gone. Hidden among a mountain range of bone and split skin.


    ¡°It¡¯s alright Gabe, we¡¯re coming off the bridge now honey.¡± His grandmother assured him, attempting to keep her voice as sweet as sugar.


    ¡°Dammit, Mary!¡± She cursed under her breath. She wouldn¡¯t have taken the bridge if she¡¯d known there¡¯d been an accident. Gabe lay shaking in the back of the car, his deep, rapid breaths sounding frantic and wheezy. Please don¡¯t see me. Please don¡¯t see me. He repeated these lines over and over in his head, fearing the dead thing might hear him if said aloud.


    ¡°See honey, it¡¯s all done and over now.¡±


    Gabe felt the car stop. Mary slipped into neutral and leaned over to comfort him. He lifted his head slowly, becoming aware once again of his surroundings. He had slightly switched off after seeing the dead woman. And like a trapped animal about to be eaten, Gabe had seized up, froze like a deer in headlights. Caramel leather, the soft¡ªbut at the same time¡ªfirm touch from his grandmother, her honeyed words, this was what made up Gabriel¡¯s world while caught in that tentacle grip of fear.


    ¡°Did she see me?¡± He whispered, too afraid to look out of the windows.


    ¡°She didn¡¯t see you, baby, come on. Come here. You¡¯re okay.¡± Mary said. Her arms pulled at him from below his right armpit. Gabe pushed himself upwards, gazing suspiciously around the car. No dead women, only his grandma; her great white hair curling vibrantly above a pair of teal oceans.


    ¡°See honey, it¡¯s okay. It¡¯s alright now. Brave boy, such a brave boy.¡± She said, stroking the adolescent afro on his head.


    Flaaaa-Buuunkkkkkk


    The window to his left became suddenly shadowed. The thing that had struck it caused Gabe to pee a little. A pancake mess of white, olive, and red, was pressed helplessly against the plexiglass window, but most horrifying of all was from somewhere amongst that ruined mess¡ªthrough a narrow slot at the bottom of all that mess¡ªappeared a mouth, and from it, the desperate cry of someone in pain.


    ¡°ERRRRLLLL MEEEEEEEEE¡± It groaned. Creamy flem sprayed against the glass. Broken fingernails scratched to get in, scratched to get him! Gabe screamed¡­then woke up with a great intake of breath.


    His heart was vibrating in his chest like some frightened hare just caught in a snare. For the next few seconds, he lay there getting his bearings. Fear had a hold of him, but slowly he felt it fade; leaking from his pores like sweat. He was okay. Just a nightmare Gabriel. You should be used to nightmares by now.


    When he felt he could, he raised himself in the bed to peer at the window. It was still dark outside meaning he¡¯d only pocketed a few hours of rest, four at most he suspected. His dark dreary hotel room seemed to carry on sleeping while Gabe shook the residue of sleep from his eyes. He kicked an almost empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Black on the way to his bathroom, he¡¯d come back for that shortly.


    Remembrance came back through the dreamy fog. He had drunk enough booze the night before to induce a light coma, yet his hangover never came, they never came¡­ Praise God for small miracles.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    Pissing for what felt like a second shy off a gallon, Gabe returned to his bed and lay there¡ªeyes closed¡ªlistening to the world outside slowly come alive. The cars that once sailed past his window in long intermediate cycles became more, and more frequent until the sun, at last, tried desperately to penetrate his drapes. Outside was filled with the noises one would expect from a city centre.


    Liverpool¡­Fire¡­Death. That was why he was here.


    He leaned over and pulled the briefcase from under the bed. The thing inside was probably the cause for his nightmare he knew. It was getting strong now. The more Gabe fed it, the more its influence grew. He clicked the locks on the tobacco brown suitcase hearing the latches click pleasantly. Lifting, he saw the remains of a single item. A black, slightly weathered bowler hat. The rim around the hat was slightly frayed displaying its age. Gabe grabbed it reluctantly.


    ¡®Flaaaaaaa-Buuunkkkkkk¡¯ came the sound from within its hollow mouth as Gabe lifted it over his head. He felt its cold rim press against his scalp like some icy bandana. A chill ran down his spine causing him to shiver all over. He opened the chest drawer beside his bed. Inside was an equally sad and lonely newspaper. Gabe again reluctantly began to lift its pages. He could still smell the old ink as if he¡¯d purchased the newspaper recently. On page five, however, he would smell only fire. Enough to choke him, make him gag as it did in his kitchen a few days prior.


    He placed the paper on the chest drawer and pealed back to page five. It was like opening a door to a burning building. He couldn¡¯t just smell the fire, taste it, almost feel it. He dropped the page, and the smell of fire was extinguished almost immediately.


    ¡°Shit.¡± He murmured, knowing now he couldn¡¯t turn back. The article on page five described the burning of a house, where two people ended up burning alive. Gabe stroked his thumb and forefinger across the rim of his hat. A habit that preceded the job at hand.


    ¡°Shit.¡± He said again.


    ¡®Language boy! Don¡¯t make me come over there and wash that filth from your mouth with a toothbrush!¡¯ His grandmother''s voice echoed in his head.


    Placing the newspaper on the suitcase, he reached for the bottle on the ground. Time to take your medicine.


    Loosening the lid, he gulped as hungrily as a thirsty man drinking fresh water for the first time in two days. The sensation of scotch burning down his throat hardly bothered him anymore, on the contrary, Gabe associated the liquid fire with relief; learned to relish it, like some addict relishing the ritual before his high. Gabe was a drinker, certainly even an alcoholic, but not a drunk. The difference between the three was minimal, but in Gabe¡¯s mind, distinct. A drinker enjoyed his or her vice. Engaging in it as often as there were causes for it: celebration mainly. An alcoholic didn¡¯t need an excuse to drink and walked the line between control and destruction like a man walking a tightrope. A drunk was simply the alcoholic that fell. Gabe heard there was a term for men like him. Men like him were functioning alcoholics. They had mastered the art of tightrope walking and engaged in it as easily as a horny man engaging in sex.


    The dangerous times that worried Gabe, when he felt closest to falling from that ways-up-place, was when he was on a job. Nothing got his thirst quite like on a job. Unlike the men and women that attended businesses, drove taxis, hauled freighters at the Albert Docks, Gabe was responsible¡ªalbeit morally¡ªto help certain disinclined spirits on their merry way. A job that Gabe would happily trade away if his conscience would permit it. But the truth of the matter was: only Gabe could fulfill a job like this. The occupation had been made for him. And whether it was God or some evolutionary advancement, only Gabe could see the dead, so only Gabe could send them away. The hat that sat currently on his head didn¡¯t work unless he was the one to use it. His grandfather could use it¡­but his grandfather was dead. His grandmother was dead, along with all the comfort she once offered him. If Gabe was to die right now, tonight. His ability might indeed die too. But he didn¡¯t believe that. He knew there were others out there, there just had to be.


    He flicked on the tv which sparked into the morning BBC news. Before Gabe could change the channel (the news leading the charge as his most avoided channel), Gabe saw the remnants of two old ghosts that momentarily hypnotized him. The news reporter was standing above the M5, his grey rain slicker jacket doing a valiant job at keeping off the rain. In one hand he held a slightly worse-for-ware microphone, its windscreen soaked with rainwater. Behind him, cars ran up and down the six-lane motorway. An assortment of flowers had been tied to the bridge on which the reporter stood.


    Unbeknownst to anyone; except Gabriel who watched fervently through the screen was a couple of dancing. Cars passed through them as if they were transparent memories, which Gabe supposed they were. This was their finishing act, their fading act as Gabe got to call it sometimes.


    ¡®¡ªAnd all that remains here is nothing more than the tragic memory of what took place. Tony and Barbara Willing died here yesterday afternoon after their vehicle began to swerve and lose control. Eleven more were injured but chief officials investi¡ª¡¯


    Gabe shut the tv off. The image of the two seniors dancing; was that the waltz? Made Johnnie Walker in his stomach want to do an emergency exit. The worst ghosts were always those that died in accidents. Car crashes, suicides, murders, all ranked supreme in their intensity. They were the bad ones Gabriel called them growing up.


    Another mystery was why the spirits maintained their image in death. A man shot in the head would walk around as a ghost with half his head missing. The old people on tv reminded Gabe of two dancing zombies, each of which deformed in some manner: a broken arm, neck, missing foot. Being in such conditions never seemed to bother the ghosts themselves, but Gabe thought he detected some deeper pain in them, a longing, lonely pain that transcended all other pain possessed by mortals. Similar pain to that of an old woman who sits abandoned at Christmas in her home with no one to love or be loved from. He suddenly felt sick.


    ¡®Please remain seated while we experience some light turbulence¡¯ the stewardess pleaded in his stomach. Johnnie and Walker got up despairingly, their hands reached defiantly for the emergency exit of the plane. The image of the two zombie-like ghosts dancing made a surprise appearance, Johnnie and Walker pulled the lever and everything left the cabin at once.

 Interlude - Gabriel (2/3)

    2.


    Gabriel walked down the carpeted hallway of the Adelphi Hotel, smelling the stale carpet cleaner that rode the air. Doors on either side passed him with every new stride, and occasionally, he picked up some distant chatter from the rooms. Golden plaques bearing room numbers were far into the hundreds up here on the top floor. Regardless of this, Gabriel took the stairs. He wasn¡¯t afraid of elevators, nor was he claustrophobic, but rather, strange things seem to happen to Gabriel while on a job. The unmistakable fact of this troubled him. At first, he considered the strange occurrences such as elevators breaking, lightbulbs blowing out, doors turning up locked, and the general hostile mood of people around him; was nothing more, or indicative of anything else say perhaps a mere coincidence. But with every new job, an underlying trend unfolded. One the Gabriel simply learned to expect.


    Gabriel took the stairs watching carefully to where he placed each one of his steps. All too easily could there be a lost shoe, discarded book¡ªor toy that so happened to appears at the base of one of these steps. All too easily could that one well-placed possession, cause him to break a leg¡­or his neck. On a job, it felt to Gabriel like the universe itself was trying to stop him. But why would that be? Were the dead not meant to be, well¡­dead? What power wanted these spirits¡ªthe bad spirits specifically¡ªto continue in this world? Surely that seemed like the work of some devil he thought. And if that was the case, he knew today of all days he couldn¡¯t risk falling asleep behind the wheel.


    At the front desk, Gabriel withdrew twenty pounds from the ATM (which surprisingly worked) for his booze, then asked the front desk clerk if the hotel supplied maps of the local area. The surprisingly polite gentlemen behind the polished wood counter offered him a brochure where inside he could find a miniature map of the area, along with ¡¯12 fun things to do in Liverpool.¡¯ Gabriel wasn¡¯t sure if this miniature map would do, but nevertheless thanked the clerk for his help and offered him one of his brightest smiles. The clerk looked as if he was holding back some irritation. The trend continued to unfold...


    He exited through the hotel¡¯s main entrance which gave birth to a line of eager taxi drivers awaiting pickups. It was mid-afternoon and the forecast looked bleak. To Gabriel, the sky looked ready to burst at any moment. The dark clouds made the day feel later than it truly was, and as if to warn him of some oncoming storm, rain began to trickle down, hitting his bowler hat with a series of tips and taps. He made his way to the nearest shop, his briefcase swinging neatly beside him. Inside the briefcase was all the equipment he would need for this job. The most important weapon of all, however, sat atop his head. A ¡®Very special hat¡¯ his grandmother called it. It once belonged to his grandfather and besides that¡­that was really all Gabriel knew about it.


    His plan was simple: He would wait until dusk before attending the site to which the spirit clung. Night worked best for this line of work. Both because they were typically fewer people if things got animated, and spirits, like in the clich¨¦ movies, only came out at night.


    A spontaneous and harrowing thought preceded him as he exited the small corner shop. Maybe it was the spirit itself that caused the line of bad luck prior to its exorcism? The bowler hat grew colder atop Gabriel¡¯s head as if snickering to this new idea. Moreover, maybe it was the things that lived up there that caused the ill-tidings? That idea terrified him more.


    Gabriel ate his tuna sandwich on a bench on the grounds of St. John¡¯s Garden not far from the hotel. He watched with hollow pleasure as people passed him, each as involved in their lives as the next. He wondered¡ªlike he often did; especially growing up, what it would have been like to live a normal life? His grandmother called his sight a gift. But she¡¯d not been the one to live with it. The gift had claimed his grandfather¡¯s life, and at times, almost claimed his. Booze helped. Helped him forget. Removed the anxiety that shadowed him every day. One would think, a person might get used to seeing the dead right before their final fade¡­But hadn¡¯t the dead hunted him, terrorised him. The memory of all his previous jobs tolled on him too, like a case of PTSD. To make matters worse, he was soberly aware that he was doomed to live a life of solidarity. What partner would believe that he saw ghosts without assuming he was bat-shit crazy? His grandmother believed him, but she was dead. Her fading memory, most painful of all.


    Despite how close he was to his grandmother; Gabriel hadn¡¯t attended her funeral. This was something Gabriel¡¯s narrow family tree found most confusing of all. When Mary died at her glorious age of nighty-six, Gabriel by that time was a man-grown. He¡¯d lived alone in a small house in Manchester which he rented at the time before moving south. What seemed most suspicious of all to his family was: how Gabriel managed to support himself after admitting he had no job. When asked by his mother one day while visiting, Gabriel had lied about receiving government handouts.


    Mary Ann Walker was a wealthy woman towards the latter end of her life. After selling her husband¡¯s house and moving into a small bungalow, Mary had kept most of her savings in a separate bank account, an account Gabriel would ultimately inherit. Rumours surrounding Mary¡¯s money circled, with half the family believing she¡¯d given the money to a charity and wished for it to remain anonymous, while the others, more deviant, suspected she¡¯d given it all to her favourite grandson Gabriel. The question of why? was up for debate between those that believed this rumour. Sure, she adored Gabriel, but to hand him a sum not far from a hundred-thousand pounds was ludicrous, especially considering the rest of her children and siblings received nothing more than a few old possessions.


    Gabriel would deny any money being given to him on his grandmother¡¯s orders. And to this day held most of it in his bank. He lived a frugal lifestyle, minus the booze perhaps, which he would admit had taken up most of his lion¡¯s share of expenses. He didn¡¯t think his grandmother would mind in that aspect though. Out of all the people God blessed upon this earth with a level of understanding, Mary was certainly one of them.


    If Gabriel was to guess. He¡¯d estimate he had enough money to supplement at least another ten years in his current lifestyle. It wasn¡¯t as if he was abject to work either. Gabriel had had jobs in the past. The longest of which lasted a year in a retail chain. But his real job often involved him travelling, sometimes weeks at a time, usually on the drop of a hat.


    Gabriel checked the face of his watch. It was quarter to four and thankfully the rain had subsided a little. Pigeons gathered around him in their flocks, eagerly expecting the morsel of bread leftover from his sandwich. Gabriel despised the crust on sandwiches, so happily obliged the begging birds at his feet. Wings cut the air in flutters as the pigeons leapt on the discarded bread. A seagull glided down from some apex Gabriel didn¡¯t see, its great winged shadow large enough to disperse the smaller birds who promptly danced away. ¡®Rats with wings¡¯ his mother used to call them. And he suspected her displeasure of pigeons originated as far back as high school when one was gracious enough to take a fly-by shit on her.


    Looking at a flock of birds at his feet, watching at how impossible it seemed for them to not bob their tiny heads with every strut; why was that? He contemplated whether he¡¯d ever seen the spirit of an animal before? Maybe he had and simply hadn¡¯t realised. Or maybe there was an equally simple fact that such things as animal spirits didn¡¯t exist. His grandfather never mentioned anything about animal spirits before. The thought both relieved and saddened Gabriel who then opened the brochure the clerk had given him and flipped to the back where a zoomed-in map was shown. He was looking for Isaac Street. The street in which he¡¯d find the burned house, and whatever remained inside.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Gabriel walked. Occasionally asking directions to Toxteth. So long as he kept the Albert Dock to his right-hand side, and not divert too much from the Mersey which flowed beside him like the river out of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, he¡¯d arrive in Toxteth soon enough.


    An uneasy calm overcome Gabriel as he walked as if the mere motion of his legs which acted like pistons somehow drove away from the looming fear. To double dose this euphoric feeling, Gabriel reached deep into his jacket and took a swig from the flask there. He also found walking helped him think. Ideas and thoughts that would elude him for days suddenly presented themselves in a rhythmic burst. Or instead came smashing into him like freight trains. He wasn¡¯t sure what the act of walking, or more accurately; travelling, had to do with this onset of revelations, but he was pleased to at least have them.


    While he walked, the thought about what to do with his hat occupied his mind mostly. Over the years it seemed to have accumulated power. Gabriel felt it. Felt how at first the rim was nothing more than a cooling kiss, where now it felt as cold as ice. The dreams were bad too and getting worse, getting¡­vivid. Even his optimal low mood seemed to have dipped further as of late.


    When Gabriel finally reached Harlow Street, he made a left. The sun at his back drooped like a melting orange and soon, it would become swallowed up by the horizon. He took the next right into Mill Street, and then, at last, saw the dooming sign of Isaac Street. The residential houses lined up like soldiers on either side and like a lieutenant general, Gabe walked down the centre line. Cars were kerbed all the way up the street. Not a single sound broke that extended silence as if the entire street was holding its breath. A black cat bounced from under one of the kerbed cars and halted in the middle of the road. It eyed Gabriel suspiciously, then completed its crossing, disappearing under the bonnet of a red Clio.


    Gabriel heard the clean, crisp clicks as his shoes danced across the smooth runway. Then he saw it. Not quite near the end of that street, on the left, was the black tooth in an otherwise healthy set. Even at this distance, Gabriel could see the outline of its hollowed windows, missing front door, and charred interior design. Black suet tattooed the adjacent houses, and he was amazed by how those neighbouring houses were still intact after the blaze.


    He halted at the foot of that husk of a house. Most of the burned furniture inside had been cleared out. The stench of ash still clung to the air with every passing breath of wind. A dog barked noisily in the next street, and as Gabriel stood there¡ªalone¡ªstaring into the remains of that house, the house seemed to look back at him. Rather, the thing IN the house looked back at him. It knew his purpose and like a brooding black widow, it waited for him to enter its nest.


    The street was quiet, quiet enough to hear a mouse fart. And if any of the neighbouring residents were to look outside, they would see a lean man standing adjacent to a burned-up house. A lean man with skin as dark as midnight ink and teeth as white as chalk, wearing a navy suit and carrying a briefcase. If they watched that man, they would see him kneel to place the briefcase on the ground and open it. See him place a pure-silver cross on a chain around his slender neck, swig from a bright canteen that drank the sun¡¯s last rays. And as the lean man rose, he carried something in his right hand. A book? A¡­Bible.


    ¡°You know why I¡¯m here,¡± Gabriel said at the open house. The house looked back silently as if brooding. Nothing moved from inside its skeletal framework.


    He willed himself forward. ¡®One step, two-step, three steps, more.¡¯ A voice sang in his head. He passed a leg through the house¡¯s threshold feeling his foot hit soft ash that was baked into the ground. The surviving framework looked to be coated in the hide of some demon. Some of the blackened beams had jagged cracks that sprouted out like veins. Every part of Gabriel wanted to leave this place, to run. Fear cuts deeper than swords, he had read in a book somewhere. But it wasn¡¯t swords that he was afraid of. It was something much worse.


    ¡®It¡¯s just as afraid of you, as you are to it.¡¯ His grandmother had assured him once after he screamed at the appearance of a spider in his room. But this was a big spider, Mary. Not some daddy-longlegs on the wall, or a small house spider. This spirit was something equally as black and terrifying, but it was also dangerous, and Gabriel was now on its web.


    ¡°She burned me.¡± Said a voice behind him and Gabriel whirled around, raising his hand that clutched his Bible more out of instinct than intent. But there was nothing there. Something had spoken; words that sounded like they had been pushed through a tight hole. It was a dry, old voice.


    ¡°She burned me in life, then in death.¡± It said again and it sounded to Gabriel like weeping. The voice also, always sounding like it was spoken over his shoulder, or more accurately: whispered in his ear.


    His breath faltering slightly, Gabriel spun around in that skeleton of a house and this time saw something move. It appeared briefly and as thinly as the beams which sprouted all around him and appeared equally as black. It shifted this way and that, disappearing, then reappearing as fast as Gabriel¡¯s eyes could keep up.


    ¡°She burned me!¡± the voice now screamed. Gabriel felt trapped in what he suspected was the living room of the house. ¡°She burned my heart! Then she burned us both!¡±


    Gabriel spun again; this time sure to catch the spirit that was so surely behind him. Nothing. He spun again. Nothing. At last, he found he could muster his voice and said firmly: ¡°Duncan Mi¡ª¡±, but his words were cut off. Black fingers that were burned right down to the bone, wrapped around his throat with unrelenting force from behind. He could feel his airway seal completely shut from those iron sticks. He widened his mouth in pain. He could already feel his head growing feint. The only thought that occupied his mind then was how strong those fingers were.


    ¡°I fucked her till she bled!¡± The voice screamed in his ear, only this time, Gabriel could feel the breath against his cheek. He couldn¡¯t smell the breath on the account of not being able to breathe but guessed if he were to smell it, it would be nothing shy of the stench of burning flesh.


    ¡°Then she burned us both!¡± It declared; its voice loathed with anger.


    He couldn¡¯t break free of the thing by force, and he couldn¡¯t speak its name; couldn¡¯t remove his hat which somehow remained firmly¡ªas if by choice¡ªon top of his head despite the intense struggle. White spots blew up in Gabriel¡¯s vision and at any moment he felt he¡¯d pass out. Then the fingers retracted at once as if they suddenly touched something hot. Gabriel fell, unable to support his weight, and gasped in a lungful of air. It was like getting high. The elation of simply being able to breathe was ecstasy.


    He coughed as the inner lining of his throat felt red and raw. Turning, he thought his heart would stop right there in his chest. A figure stood, as black and skeletal as the house that it died in was standing before him. Melted skin stuck to an eyeless skull, and to Gabriel, the body looked nothing more than the frame of charred bones.


    ¡°It burned!¡± the spirit screamed. The smell that Gabriel faced when opening the newspaper that early morning, days ago returned. He could taste the ash on his lips. Taste the smoke in his lungs even though there was no fire. It choked him. It burned him.


    ¡°I burned till my skin melted, my eyes popped within my head. I screamed but no one came. SHE-BURNED-MEEEEEEEE¡±


    The spirit rushed forward; its arms outstretched like broom handles. Fingers sprouted from each broom handle towards his neck. They wanted to wrap once again around his throat. Probably to squeeze the life out of him this time. To finish the job.


    ¡°DUNCAN MILLER!¡± Gabriel swiftly yelled as if casting some fantastic spell. He held the Bible up in front of him like a shield. The spirit shrieked, then haltered. Relief washed over Gabriel at the spirits sudden hesitation, but his hand holding the Bible was shaking furiously. He stroked the rim of his hat with thumb and forefinger, then lifted it up slowly before his courage waned. Death began to sing.

 Interlude - Gabriel (3/3)

    3.


    When it was over, nothing but the seared foundation of the house still stood. Even Gabriel, who fell kneeling, hat between his thighs, was sobbing. It was over, yes. But the echo of what happened here would remain forever with him.


    The spirit had tried to kill him. Tried to strangle him. He¡¯d met angry spirits before, but none had more capability than perhaps moving light objects. This spirit had somehow placed its dead fingers on him, and if it hadn¡¯t reeled back at the last second, Gabriel might not have been discovered until someone poked their noses into the remains of that house on Isaac Street. There they would find him dead. Would they see the marks around his neck he wondered?


    The hat between Gabriel¡¯s thighs was freezing; No, rather it was burning like a chunk of dry ice. Its coldness felt so intense it was almost impossible to touch. Gabriel sat there for some time letting his body and mind reset. As short as the interaction was with the spirit, Gabriel¡¯s body felt as though it had been through a war of attrition. His mind was busy sliding the jigsaw pieces of information into what happened, and his throat¡­His throat felt three sizes too big, yet paradoxically, too narrow to suck in the air comfortably. Each breath took a conscious effort and burned through that tender canal, and each time he filled his lungs, Gabriel winced.


    This spirit of ¡®The Burned Man¡¯ as he would come to call it later in life when visiting a certain man called: John Grimshaw, was the only spirit that came close to killing Gabriel. Others had attacked him, he wouldn¡¯t deny that, but this one seemed all too able, too strong. After what seemed like perhaps thirty minutes, he could finally touch the hat on the ground in front of him. It was still difficult to touch but had cooled; or rather, warmed. He rescued his briefcase that had somehow been flung into another room of the house during the struggle and placed the hat within. Now, confident his legs could carry his weight, he left the house through the same open arch and ventured back out into the city streets of Liverpool. The street continued sleeping, silent as before. The only thing to cut that silence was Gabriel¡¯s dress shoes which clicked against the road.


    He backtracked his steps to Mill Street, then Marlow Street; using the Mersey to guide him back to his hotel. When he walked along the strip that led to his hotel, warm night lights made a runway for him. Taxis drove by to and fro. Partygoers were out in force, the girls dressed lightly in tight dresses while all the men seemed to wear polo shirts. They passed him as if he was no more than a stranger, which he was, but if he were to be wearing a paramedic uniform, or firefighter jacket, they might at least acknowledge him for his service to the community. To many, he probably looked one bottle from falling off the wagon, which he supposed in a way was also true.


    Whether they knew it or not, however, he may have saved a life tonight. Especially if a spirit as dark and strong as this one was to stick about. The spirits that refused to move on were like leeches to the living, feeding primarily on both the weak and feeble. A spirit left unattended in a home might only get a healthy adult sick more than what was considered natural, perhaps even cause a pet to die a few years early. But against the old and very young, a spirit like that could be detrimental. Babies would die in the middle of the night due to unknown circumstances, most of which would later be chalked up to cot death, while an elder would appear to simply pass away of old age. A spirit could feed on the living¡­forever if left alone to do it. It would be confined to a single place, usually a house or area. Usually where they died. And almost all the spirits that stayed in this world after their date with death were the bad ones.


    Gabriel had seen a few good ones stick about. Usually, these comprised of old people that died of natural causes but weren¡¯t quite ready to move on without their lover. Gabriel once attended a haunting only to see the spirit smiling warmly next to his wife. Sometimes, people die of a broken heart Gabriel heard. When one partner dies, the other shortly follow; that was true even for rats. He didn¡¯t think all of these were entirely just that. No matter whether the spirit was kept here by love, or by hate, it could only nourish itself on the living. Whether by accident or by intent, a spirit eventually pulled whatever it could into its world.


    He limped back into the front of the Adelphi Hotel, his throat now throbbing with pain. He needed something for pain and ice for the swelling. He walked to the set of elevators, but instead of riding one up to his room, he entered a side door that led down into the hotel¡¯s bar. The room was both spacious and at the same time cosy. Chairs, tables, lounges, and couches were all dispersed on different levels. Some tables required you to climb a few steps, while others required you to descend. Centring this was the bar that floated like a lonely island and took the shape of an octagon.


    Gabriel sat on a stool at the bar, gazing dreamily at the hot pie displayed in the oven opposite him. He didn¡¯t see the barman approach him, instead heard his voice break the white noise like a sonic boom.


    ¡°Jesus, mate.¡± He said, ¡°You look like you¡¯ve been through hell and just got back?¡±


    The barman was tall and broad with a little too much gut for him to be anything less than a beer enthusiast. Gabriel tried to give him a reassuring smile but couldn¡¯t. He waved a hand instead and said: ¡°Bourbon. Doesn¡¯t matter which. Plenty of rocks please.¡±


    The barman looked at him as if contemplating whether to get him his bourbon or an ambulance. Thankfully, Gabriel saw him dash to grab a small glass and fill it with a generous amount of ice without saying a word. Gabriel rubbed at his throat which was now swollen to a dangerous size. Withdrawing his fingers back he noticed the tips of them were coated in what looked like black dust.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°There you are, mate. Jim Bean, extra ice.¡± The barman said placing the shot glass in front of him. The bourbon nested at the bottom of the glass, nearly two inches of ice burying it. Gabriel tried a smile again, only to get the uncomfortable sensation of hot wires running through his neck. He placed the glass of ice heavenly against the swelling.


    ¡°Thank you. How much do I owe ye?¡± He asked. The barman eyed him for a moment, his thick moustache that sat above his lip as some oversized caterpillar twitched. The barman still looking to be contemplating calling Gabriel an ambulance, mainly on the account his words were sounding like they were being pushed through a tight hole.


    ¡°Two-thirty.¡± The barman said.


    Gabriel reached deep into his trousers; still holding the ice to his throat with one hand and retrieved the ten he had split earlier today. He placed it on the bar noticing the black streaks that stained the paper from his fingers. Fearing those hot wires would cause him to scream, Gabriel raised a single finger and tried to talk.


    ¡°One more.¡± He whispered, ¡°This one¡­closer to neat than Mount Everest.¡±


    The barman understood and turned to shake his head. ¡°Make it a double if you can,¡± Gabriel added and remotely heard how his voice sounded like that of a stage four throat cancer patient.


    ¡°You sure, you¡¯re alright mate?¡± the barman protested when he returned, ¡°Your throats swollen pretty bad. You might need a hospital. A walk-in at least?¡±


    Gabriel was aware of the other patrons looking at him now and considered whether it would have been a better idea to simply head up to his room instead.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine,¡± Gabriel assured him none-too-kindly. He wanted to smile to take the edge off his words, but his larynx felt like an overly tightened guitar string.


    Frowning, the barman left him. Gabriel took a sip of his drink, rejoicing as the incredible ice water soothed and slightly numbed his throat. He hoped the ice would reduce the swelling; albeit a little, as the simple act of breathing was rapidly becoming an expensive luxury. Air whistled in and out making a series of musical notes. Gabriel giggled at how he sounded like some dying steam-engine train.


    Uncomfortably aware of the eyes upon him, he reluctantly raised his briefcase onto the bar and flipped the latches one at a time. Inside, he pulled free the same Liverpool newspaper he had early this morning. Flipping to page five, he braced unconsciously for that same onslaught of fire and smoke smell¡­only this time, it did not come. He smiled broadly, overriding the pain that protested in his neck at the scentless page, then broke out in a fit of wheezy coughs.


    The spirit was truly gone. The newspaper was evident of that. He still wasn¡¯t sure how, or why, he could smell spirits in the pages of old newspapers, but in the same vein of receiving revelations by the simple act of walking, he was simply grateful. Tomorrow, he would purchase every tabloid he could find, and then in the afternoon, spend an hour or two, flipping from page to page to discover if any spirits required exorcism. If a month went by without a spirit showing up, he would branch out into other counties: London, Wales, Scotland. He supposed in some way he was like a Ghost Buster. The idea made me chuckle, then cough.


    The glass which he held to his throat tinkled against something metallic. Gabriel ran a thin finger across his neck and pulled free his silver chain; he had forgotten he was still wearing it. Pure silver gleamed in the palm of his hand, attached to the chain was across. Black tread marks blemished some of the silver links and those jigsaw pieces that remained floating in Gabriel¡¯s head suddenly clicked into place. He now understood why the spirit had pulled back so fiercely when it had him in its death grip. It had accidentally touched this silver thread during the struggle. Given how close he was to blackout at the time, Gabriel concluded that this chain likely saved his life. He raised the cross to his lips to plant a kiss, before letting it fall between his chest.


    Gabriel sat at the bar all night, allowing himself to enjoy this moment. When he needed to piss after his fourth drink, he washed his hands in the bathroom and stared admirably at his reflection in the mirror. His briefcase rested on the sink while Gabriel scooped cold water in a closed palm and dash it against his face. Gabriel stared into the clouded toilet mirror, observing the thick purple bands hung around his neck like a set of chokers.


    ¡®It was real.¡¯ He thought. He wasn¡¯t delusional, or crazy like he sometimes thought. The spirit he fought was real, there was no denying that. The bands around his neck were trophies to that fact, evidence of his sanity. The swirling motion that Gabriel couldn¡¯t see the dead, but simply had: a screw loose, missing toys in the attic, wasn¡¯t playing with a full deck of cards, swam around his mind.


    Gabriel extended his neck out to get a better look at those beautiful bruises. Despite the pain, he wanted everyone to see them. To acknowledge them. To reinforce that they were there, and he wasn¡¯t crazy.


    ¡°You did them yourself monkey.¡± A voice said, so close it made Gabriel jump backwards. His briefcase that rested on the sink suddenly twitched as if something alive was inside and wanted to get out. ¡°You think you¡¯re a hero today. But you¡¯re nothing but a loon, a crazy. Everyone you pass knows you¡¯re crazy! They watch you when you¡¯re not looking, talk about you when you¡¯re not listening. I can hear them talking about you right now! Out there!¡±


    Gabriel looked to his right at the door that led out to the bar. The briefcase was dancing now, the thing inside pounding to get out. He was expecting someone to come in given the ruckus, but no one did. The voice was yelling now.


    ¡°CRAZY, CRAZY, NOTHING BUT A CRAZY MONKEY THAT NEEDS LOCKING UP! CRAZY, CRAZY!¡±


    Gabriel ran at his briefcase, kicking it with all his strength. If he¡¯d missed and hit the ceramic bowl instead, he might have broken a toe. Instead, he volleyed the briefcase onto the floor with a bang, Pain shot up his foot from the impact of such a kick. The briefcase gave one last defiant bounce then fell still on the floor. It went quiet. Gabriel breathed heavily, the air burning as it came in and then back out.


    ¡°See you in your dreams, Gabriel.¡± The thing inside the briefcase muttered and rested.