Dark Corners READY FOR PRC (18 page)

“Well, you know I asked for a name, but forgot to write the message down.” I rolled my eyes. “What do you think?”

 “Honestly, I don’t know where to start, Ella. First of all, why would you investigate the noises? What would you do if you found someone? You should’ve called the police, that's why they're there. Second, you should never leave the house.  What if he was trying to scare you into the open so he could abduct you? Did you think about that? He could have been waiting on the porch for you. You should have secured yourself in a room and called the police.”

“If a person’s behind all this, he’s coming and going from my house whenever he wants anyway, so why would he lure me to the porch? And I called you—you are the police.”

“I was sleeping, and you must have left as soon as you hung up because I called you back immediately.” He eyed my pajamas and messy hair. “Where did you go like that?”

“To the cemetery—no dress code.”

“You were scared, so you went to the cemetery?” He shook his head, the hint of a smile tilting his mouth.

“I went to see Danny . . . or his grave, anyway. I hadn’t been there since the funeral. It wasn't like I intended to go there. It's just where I ended up.”

Gabriel's expression turned thoughtful, but he didn’t say anything right away. “When did you cut your hand in all of this?” he asked as he put the last bandage on my finger.

“At the cemetery, someone broke bottles on the grave and I didn’t see the glass. I used the bottom of my nightgown to stop the bleeding, then I came back here.”

He nodded, still staring at my hand though his mind seemed lost in thought. His thumb gently rubbed over the inside of my fingers. “You should probably get a tetanus shot.”

“You were worried.”

He tore his gaze away from my hand to look me in the eye, but kept a firm hold on my fingers.  “Yes, I was worried.”

“What did you think happened?”

“I don’t know. I kept thinking of how . . .  your husband was and . . .” his voice trailed off. “I don’t like you being here alone. It hasn't felt right since I started the investigation.”

I understood, but couldn’t voice my understanding. Horrific images were flooding my head again; I pulled my hand away so I could vacate the close quarters of the bathroom. In the living room, I wedged myself in the corner of the couch and pulled a blanket around myself, suddenly cold. Gabriel took a seat in the chair opposite from the couch.

When I finally had my voice back I asked, “What do you think is happening?”

He hesitated as if he wasn’t entirely certain what I was talking about. “With?”

“With
this
. The house. I hate to say it, but these things aren’t new occurrences. This has been happening for a while.  I need to know. Am I crazy? Is the house haunted? Or is someone doing this to me? I want your opinion.”

“I don’t know,” he said slowly, “but my money would be on someone doing this to you.”

“Why?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? If we figure out the why, then we’ll know the who. You said this has been happening for a while. When exactly did it start?”

“As soon as we moved in.” I felt like I kept having the same conversations with him. I know I told him all of this when he first questioned me after the murder, but maybe he was hoping I remembered new details . . .  or maybe he was hoping I would slip up. Anticipating a question about specific occurrences, I went to my computer and pulled up a draft of the book about Danny's murder.

Normally I never let someone read a book before it was completed, but this would be the easiest way to convey what had happened without reliving it. Besides, I had doubts about whether I was strong enough to verbalize the story for him this morning.

“What types of things happened? What are you doing?”

I held up a finger for him to wait just a moment as I hit the print. “This isn’t everything, but it’s what I have so far. It will give you a good idea of how it all started.”

“You wrote it down?”

“My next book is going to be non-fiction.”

“You’re writing about Danny?”

“You knew that.”

“No, I didn’t. I knew you were writing again, but you said it was about his family. Why would I know that?”

“I thought I mentioned it. I was researching the house.”

“I thought you were investigating the ghost angle.”

“I am. It helps me understand and see new angles when I write things down. Writing has always opened my mind to new possibilities. Why? Do you think it’s a bad idea to write this story?”

“Not if it’s what you want to do. I imagine it’ll be an emotional one for you, though—and there’ll be a contingency of people that think you’re responsible, and they'll use this book against you.”

“I don’t care what they think,” I lied, more to myself than to him.  “And anyway, it doesn’t matter—I can’t finish my book until there is an ending. After that I’ll have answers and I’ll be leaving. They’ll either accept what I have to say or they won’t, but the important thing is I won’t be here to hear about it.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home, back to Chicago,” I said as I handed him the pages. “Read.   I'm going to take a shower.”

I never could stand to watch people read my work. The anxiety was unbearable. I could barely even tolerate the idea of people I didn't know reading and judging my ideas, my effort. I never read reviews or googled myself—what I didn't know was probably for the best. And this book was of a more personal nature, which made it much worse.

Walking back downstairs, clean if not entirely refreshed, I reminded myself that this was not my best work. I could have done better. I hadn't even read it since it was written. It was probably full of a thousand typos and clunky dialogue. By the time I peeked into the living room to see if he was done, I had completely justified his hatred of the story.

Gabriel appeared to have finished and was casually flipping back through the pages. I couldn't read his expression as I walked into the room.

“Is this a joke?” he demanded before I could say anything.  He seemed almost angry with me.

“No . . . was it funny?” I asked horrified that it could have been that bad.

“Not at all,” he practically snarled.

I finally placed the expression on his face: disgust. Maybe the story was beyond rewrites; I should just start over.

“Well, it’s a just first draft. I haven’t even read it yet. It’s just some history and what happened right after we moved in. I’m not sure what you expected.”

“That's not what this is.”

“Of course it is. I wrote it.  I know what it’s about.”

“Really? You read it.” He thrust the papers in my direction.

The first page was just as I remembered writing it, but every page after was completely new to me.

The birds chirped and the sounds of early morning filled the blackness. The soft vibration of his snore was deafening. When would she be home? How could she abandon me with this buffoon? It would just be the two of us soon. I had it all arranged now, and there would be no going back.

Did she miss me?

Would she realize it was all for her?

Excitement coursed through my veins as I unhooked one side of the ceiling rack over the island. Pot and pans plunged to floor causing a tinny rumble. This should wake him. If it did I would only have a few moments to get everything back in order, before he stomped downstairs groggy and vulnerable. I expertly put everything back in place. I knew where she kept everything.   I knew better than he did.

As I held the last pan in my hand I listened. He wasn't awake yet.  He was never as dependable about on checking on the house. She cared, she understood. He was only worried about himself.

I hit the last pan against the stainless steel sink until I heard him moving upstairs, then I put it back on the rack. Moving silently to my hiding spot, I awaited my moment. Giddy with anticipation, I could barely hold still. So much planning was finally coming to its beautiful peak. I watched him as he walked into the kitchen. Predictable, always so predictable. He gave up the search almost immediately, deciding to get a drink of water. I was so close to him I could hear him breathing, yet he didn’t see me. All I had to do was reach out a hand.  He would never see it coming. But he never saw anything except himself.

I stepped out behind him swiftly and silently. With a quick flash of steel, I severed his spinal cord. He tried to yell, was shocked by his inability to do so as I stepped down on his throat crushing his windpipe. He could do nothing, the only threat in these wee morning hours was me. I was completely in control now. I retrieved the knives, all of them from butcher knife to butter knife slowly inspecting each blade.

I propped him up against the pantry door to begin my real work. My art. I chose two very long thin, strong knives that I had brought with me to pin him to the door. I stabbed them through his shoulders underneath the collarbones. I felt a rush, a wave of exhilaration, as the blood oozed and the panic in his eyes was replaced with fear.

I took my time arranging all the other knives. I used the butter knives on softer areas and the bigger sharper knives on the thicker areas. Life seeped from him much too soon robbing me of my fun. I saved the best knife for last, however, the wedding cake knife right in the heart.

The blood pool on the floor had been growing larger and larger. I had not forgotten a single detail in my plan. She would be home soon. Would she appreciate my work? The attention to detail?

I wanted to watch her reaction, but I knew it would be risky to stay. Worth it though, to see her face when she realized that I had liberated her. I alone had the power to do that for her. I offered her freedom, life. I alone had the power to take life from her and give life to her. I was God.

I didn’t have to wait long. She walked in the door just as beautiful as I had remembered her being. She immediately sensed my presence. She looked upstairs first, disappointing me that she couldn't feel exactly where I was waiting for her. Finally she came into the kitchen. She looked at the door, at my art and slowly reached towards its beauty. She covered her mouth, probably hiding a smile, though she didn’t need to hide it from me; I could see her as no one ever did. She fell to her knees, having never seen anything like this before. Still she had said nothing. She was failing me. I wanted more from her. I wanted a reaction, something grand and worthy of the work I put into it. Her eyes rolled up into her head and she crumbled to the floor, just inches from the blood.

Not quite what I had hoped for, but I understood her mind had been overcome by appreciation for all I had done. I could stay with her no longer.  It was time I moved to one of my safer hiding spots. I wanted to be able to watch the police work, not to miss a single detail of this day, my day that I had planned for so long.

As I left her in the kitchen, I moved her hand into the pool of blood never feeling closer to her then I did at that moment. Someday she would know and appreciate everything I had done for her. Someday we would be together.