Authors: Kristen Selleck
She
laid one hand gently on the doorknob and the other on the door. Slowly she
twisted. The unlocked knob rolled easily in her hand. She leaned against the
door, opening it slowly.
The
first thing she noticed was that the light was on. Then, an empty bed…his coat
on the floor…the empty recliner…a purse on the armrest…and finally Seth, with
his back pressed to the far wall…and Sam, in front of him. Sam’s arms around
his neck, her face just inches from his, their lips almost touching. Sam’s
purse on the armrest of the chair. Sam…Sam!
Seth’s
eyes were open, and he saw her first.
“Oh
no, Chloe…no, no, no!” he said turning his face to the side, and bringing his
hands up to break Sam’s grip around his neck.
Sam
turned, saw Chloe in the doorway, and froze. She looked terrified, her mouth
opened to form words, but nothing came out. Chloe couldn’t remember ever
seeing Sam at a loss for words before. Seth was walking…coming towards her
slowly with his hands out, like she was a horse that might spook, something
that would run. He was talking, she thought. Was he talking? Why couldn’t
she hear him? What was that roaring sound in her ears? Like blood rushing, or
a storm rumbling. She felt hot, did it suddenly get hotter? Her mouth felt
dry. Why didn’t Sam move? Focus…what was he saying?
“It’s
not what it looks like,” he soothed, trying to keep direct eye contact with
her. “I know what it looks like, but it isn’t Clo, you gotta trust me, it
isn’t.”
She
laughed, one shrill, high-pitched note. Was that her voice? It didn’t sound
like her voice. Seth winced. He was close now, his fingers too close to her.
She felt numb, but something told her that if he touched her it would burn. It
would rip all through her body, and then everything would hurt like hell.
“Don’t
touch me,” she whispered, taking a step back.
He
stopped, dropping his hands to the side, still trying to keep eye contact with
her. She was careful to stare at a point just over his head.
“Please,”
he said. “Just come in, talk to me. This is not what you think-”
“I
don’t think anything,” she replied without a trace of emotion. “Nothing at
all, and I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to talk to either of you.”
Chloe took another step back, she glanced down the hallway. One part of her
wanted to run back to her room and lock the door, the other part wanted to run
down the hall, down the stairs, out the door into the night, and just keep
running.
Seth
shook his head at her, his eyes huge…wild. Like he could read her thoughts,
maybe. Could he?
I hate you
, she thought at him.
I hate me for trusting
you
. He didn’t flinch, so maybe he couldn’t.
“Clo…”
he said. “walk with me, come with me, we’ll go for a drive, we’ll-”
“I’m
tired. I’m going to bed. I’d appreciate it if you’d let Sam stay here
tonight, because I don’t think I want to look at her either for awhile,” Chloe
said, keeping her voice low and impersonal. He made a face like she had
punched him in the gut. How funny! Like she had hurt him. If he tried to
follow her, she probably would hit him though. She could stay calm unless he
tried to touch her, he had better not try that.
“Good
night,” she said robotically, and shut the door.
She
shuffled back to her room quickly, one hand on the wall. It seemed imperative
to get there fast. Safe, she thought, somewhere safe. Shut and lock the
doors, push the dresser in front of it in case Sam tries to come back. Would
that be crazy? Probably, who cares though? I’ll cover the window too, with a
blanket, and no one will be able to see in, and no one shall come in, and I’ll
be safe. And I’ll think of something to do. I’ll think of where to go.
Didn’t
see this coming?
asked the bad voice,
Didn’t know this would happen?
Oh
don’t worry, Chloe answered it in her mind. Just let me get safe and you can
have at me all you want, I won’t say anything. You’re right. You’ve always
been right.
Safe
in her room, she locked the door and turned the deadbolt. She ripped Sam’s
comforter off the bed and climbed onto the windowsill. She stuffed one end of
it over the top of the rod that the bead curtain hung from. Jumping back, she
eyed the dresser speculatively. With one arm, she brushed the make-up and
hairdryer off the top, not even cringing when she heard something shatter on
the floor. She put her shoulder to it on one side and shoved, hard. It
shrieked forward a few inches. Straining she pushed against it as hard as she
could. For all her effort, it hardly budged. It was just big, and heavy, and
solid.
In
the end she was only able to move the desk across the room. This she jammed against
the door lengthwise, and stood back to survey her work. She couldn’t be sure,
but while she was moving the desk, she thought she heard someone knocking, they
didn’t try to open the door however, so that was just fine.
Safe,
she decided. Now what? She had thought about making plans. Planning to move
or drop out of school, maybe. She should see how much was in her account, see
how far she could go and for how long. Or she could cry, maybe she should lay
on her bed and have a good cry. That’s what most girls would do, wasn’t it?
Sob hysterically into a pillow for a good hour or two? She didn’t feel like
crying. Someone was knocking again.
Chloe
stopped and listened. Was it the door? I didn’t sound like the door, there
was a certain sound that came from rapping your knuckles against a solid wood
door, and it really didn’t sound like the door. The sound stopped. Chloe blew
a raspberry at nothing and then glanced around the room. She didn’t feel like
doing much of anything, to be honest. She was starting to wish she had run
outside and just kept running. The room felt stuffy now, hot and stuffy. Her
eyes fell on an unopened bottle of Smirnov on top of the mini fridge. Sam’s,
of course. She had brought a couple of bottles from home, having plenty of
older friends to buy them for her there. She was down to one bottle.
“Well,
share and share alike,” Chloe said, reaching for the bottle, “What’s mine is
yours, what’s yours is mine, right Sam?”
A
shot first, and then she would see what they had to mix it with. She had a
vague memory of there maybe being a couple twenty ouncers of pop in the fridge,
but a shot first.
Sam
had the shot glasses. They were stacked inside of each other on the shelf next
to her books. Chloe helped herself. There was that knocking again. What was
it? Glass, maybe? Someone knocking on glass?
“Sssssshhhh…”
Chloe warned. The sound stopped.
She
poured herself a shot with a shaky hand. Over-poured, some spilled over the
top of the glass and made a ring on the desk. She held the shot glass up to no
one.
“To
college,” she declared, “to friends and boyfriends, and new beginnings. To all
that bullshit!”
Chloe
tossed the shot back and shut her eyes against the burning that raced down her
throat and into her stomach. It was a feeling. And since she had opened the
door to Seth’s room, she had felt nothing. The burning in her throat was good.
Another
shot, she decided, and there was that knocking sound again.
“Coming,
coming,” she promised it, and poured another glass full.
It
got louder.
“What
the hell?” she asked the empty room. It wasn’t the door. She listened
carefully, walking against the wall towards her bed. It was less like
knocking, more like tapping, and it had to be glass, something tapping on glass.
The window? She was on the second story, but the window, maybe?
She
pulled back the comforter and saw only a black wall, her room reflected back at
her darkly. She pressed her face against the glass, placing one hand at her
forehead to try and shield the overhead light from her eyes. Outside it was
snowing, always snowing, the parking lights gave everything an orange glow.
Nothing moved.
“Screw
it,” she said dropping the comforter back in front of the window. She raised
her glass again.
“To
Seth and Sam!” she said, “I hope they both burn in hell!” She laughed and
threw back the shot glass. She couldn’t be sure, but it seemed to burn a lot
less this time. Now it just felt warm. Still good though.
The
tapping started again.
“What
the hell?!” Chloe demanded of the empty room.
Tink,
tink, tink… she whipped her head around violently, searching for the source.
Her eyes came to rest upon the mirror and the tapping stopped.
The
strange star, the star of Bedlam, Sam had dubbed it, the sign for Abraham’s Men
was drawn on the mirror in red lipstick.
“Oh,
now that’s sexy,” Chloe remarked, “I was starting to miss you George. Where’ve
you been?”
No
answer, but a strange feeling none-the-less. The feeling that something was
there, something that would breath if it could draw air. Some presence. It
made the room feel even smaller, stuffier.
“Well
there’s a shock,” Chloe continued. “You’re here, but you don’t feel much like
talking, huh? Well, that’s okay, you can keep me company anyway.”
She
put the glass down and poured another.
“Right
now George, you’re probably the best friend I have, or the only one at least.”
She raised the shot glass to him and then tossed it back.
Chloe
blew out a hot breath and shook her head a bit, she could already feel the
lightness creeping up her spine from the alcohol in her stomach.
“You
know George, one thing I really don’t understand. Why don’t you dead people
ever just come out and say exactly what you want, exactly what you’re still
doing here? It’s always, ‘Help!’ or ‘Trapped!’ or ‘Hit that guy with a vase!’
What are you still doing here?” Chloe demanded.
Nothing
happened, no voice, no flying objects. For an instant, Chloe felt as though
something light as air brushed past her, but it could have been her
imagination, or the vodka.
“Maybe
you need something to write with, is that it?” Chloe asked. “Where’d that
lipstick go George, you hanging on to that for later?” She glanced around, and
seeing nothing laying out, reached into her draw and grabbed a black marker.
She took the cap off.
“Here,”
she said, holding it out to the middle of the empty room. “Here you go. Go
on, take it! You getting shy all of a sudden? Take it! Why don’t you take it
and start by telling me, why you decided to come back now. We don’t hear a
peep out of you for months and then, of all times, right now. Why?”
The
room hummed with a strange sort of energy, and yet, nothing happened. No
noise, no tapping, nothing.
“Oh
George, you disappoint me,” Chloe complained.
She
made to toss the marker back in her desk drawer, but her hand clamped around it
in a tight fist instead.
“What
the-” Chloe gasped.
Holding
it in her fist, she struggled to open her fingers, but some unseen force kept
them clamped firmly around the marker. And then…it pulled. Yanked her
forward, actually. Chloe stumbled after her hand, being dragged by the force.
She didn’t talk, didn’t even bother to struggle.
As
she watched, the force bent her arm, forcing her fist up, the marker tip
against the wall. Whatever held her hand began to write. Large angry slashes,
making letters that didn’t quite connect. T…H…E…Y… she watched dumbfounded. A
few more letters and her hand was released, her arm flapped to her side, the
marker hit the floor.
“They’re
watching,” she read aloud. “Who, George? Who’s watching? I don’t
understand. You want me to understand, don’t you? Why don’t you just tell
me? Why does everything have to be so cryptic with you?”
A
feeling so strong, so overpowering filled the room, that it almost seemed to
shake to Chloe. It flooded into her. It wasn’t anger, outrage, it was
frustration. Frustration at not being able to communicate. Horrible
frustration and maybe exhaustion. She wasn’t sure if it were hers or his.
“You
know what?” she asked raising her voice. “You know what I don’t get? You
terrorize my room. Leave messages all over my walls, write my name…and then
you possess Melanie? What the hell, George? You remind me of another guy I
know. You want me to know, you want me to understand? Why don’t you possess
me? What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with my body? Come on in, George.
It’s crazy in here, it’ll feel just like home.”