Dark Corners Page 3

My head’s throbbing made me force my eyelids apart the next morning. It could have been a hangover or a general lack of sleep, having tossed and turned most of the night, but I was as tired as when I’d first fallen asleep. The pain, however, was a relief so I didn’t take anything to dull the ache. At least it was something real, something to indicate I was still here. I was still alive.

  I didn’t bother changing out of my pajamas. Slipping on my thick terry cloth robe, I let the belt drag on the floor as I did my best zombie shuffle to the kitchen.

  In the hallway I picked up a half finished glass of vodka off the entrance table. The ice cubes had long since melted and the vodka was room temperature, but I drank it anyway. The watered down vodka did little to help my churning stomach, but it did provide the welcome sense of something familiar. The kitchen held new unwanted surprises. All of the dishes and glasses were out of the cabinets sitting across the counters and table. I blinked a few times, hoping it was my imagination, but the kitchen remained a stubborn realm of chaos. I opened each cupboard and sure enough each one was completely cleared out.

  “Son of a bitch. Next time why don’t you pack them in boxes?” I yelled to whatever I inhabited the house with. The house answered me with stillness and absolute silence. It was good at playing possum—with me and any time other people were around. It was only on rare occasions I had actual witnesses to my torment, someone to say, “I saw that, you aren’t crazy.”

  I rolled my eyes; I just did not have the energy to deal with this now. Picking up the backup vodka from the counter, I officially gave up.

  “You made the mess, you clean it up.” I said loud enough it made my head pound. I sauntered towards the living room holding the vodka bottle by the neck in one hand and my glass in the other. Before I could crash on the couch, an explosion of breaking glass came from the kitchen.

  “Shit,” I grumbled and went back to peek around the corner. One of the stacks of plates was shattered on the floor.

  “Break them all, like I give a crap. I’ll burn the place down,” I snarled, setting my precious vodka down. The front door slammed behind me. I whipped around. The door looked as it always did—except it was unlocked. I crept over to it and yanked it open, hoping for an element of surprise, trying to push away the fear of what I would find...

  No one was there. No one was on the porch. No one was even on the street. Nothing at all.

  I shut the door locking it, then double and triple checking it. The living room waited patiently for a slightly more scared, but definitely more annoyed me. The couch was calling my name. I poured a generous drink, then sprawled out, setting my glass where I could easily reach it. Nuzzling underneath the throw blanket, I closed my eyes in an effort to forget where I was. I tried to imagine myself in a happy place, but all my memories were bitter sweet and my reality was…well lacking to say the least. I gave up on finding a happy place and took to counting my breath instead.

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight—door slam—nine, ten, eleven, twelve—footsteps upstairs—fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen—plates clanking against each other.... And so the morning went until around 10:30 when it all inexplicably stopped. There was nothing. My head wasn’t better, but it wasn’t worse. My vodka was depleted, and my body hurt from inactivity, but I didn’t have the will to force myself to get up. I didn’t have the attention span to watch television or read a book. Listening to music seemed like too much work. My current energy level was conducive only to staring at the back of my eyelids or occasionally the ceiling.

  “You have to get up. You have to move, all of this laying around is killing you. Get your ass off the couch!” Eventually my short mental pep talk forced me to fake signs of life and go back into the kitchen. I swept the shards of glass into a pile and bent over to push them into the dustpan. And since I was being productive, I wondered if I should continue this cleaning throughout the house, well the first floor at least. A sharp stabbing pain in my hand brought me back to reality.

  “Damn it,” I complained to no one in particular as I pulled the glass fragment from my finger. The blood welled red and angry against my pale skin. I emptied the dust pan before running my finger under water in the sink.

  I scanned the floor for any glass I missed, but didn’t see glass.... Drops of blood from my finger glowed against the white tile. Suddenly my mind was flooded with images from the last time I saw blood in this kitchen. I couldn’t let myself think about it. I wouldn’t fall into those shadows again. I wrapped my finger in my last paper towel, then scrubbed the spots off the floor, refusing to think of the last time I had to do this.

  I worked for the next hour getting everything back where it belonged. I was moving so slow every task seemed insurmountable. I wanted to scream, shout, cry—but but it wouldn’t do me any good. No one was listening and if they were they didn’t care. And as much as I hated to admit it, even to myself, that was what I wanted more than anything: someone to listen to me. Someone to believe me, to help me.

  Not the kind of help Susan wanted me to get. What good would a mental institution do me? I wasn’t crazy. Selfish, self-centered, mean, drunk, grumpy, miserable, maybe—but not crazy. I knew what I had seen, what I had felt. Once the kitchen looked as it should, revealing no trace of its dark past, I went back to the couch. It occurred to me that perhaps I should stop using the kitchen, period. After all, my stomach still fluttered every time I went in there. I couldn’t round the corner to the kitchen without expecting to see the bloody massacre again. My mind fought to retreat into memories that would curb the anger, but spike the sadness. But I didn’t want to be sad! Anger at least kept me somewhat functional. Yet I knew I had to do something. If I didn’t want to be stuck here for the rest of my life I had to pull myself out of this routine. There had to be a way to move on with life. Some sort of closure was the only way I could let this go, let Danny go. Even the thought made my heart heavy.

  I stood up and flung my glass against the wall, smiling when it shattered. I grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the bar and emptied it over the floor, then went to the kitchen and rummaged for matches. I found some, finally, buried deep underneath dish towels that had been a wedding shower gift. I would end this once and for all. I went back into the living room and struck a match into a flame. Before I could drop the match, it snuffed out. I pulled out another one; the same thing happened. I tried again. And again. Same results. I cried out in frustration and knelt down so I was closer to the alcohol. I would watch this God forsaken place burn to the ground with a smile on my face even if I had to burn with it. Before I could strike my last match, all of the doors in the house slammed open and shut with such force the house shook snapping me back into reality. The doors continued their assault. The noise was deafening. Pain tore through my head. I dropped the match, unlit, in the puddle and covered my ears. I rocked back and forth trying to block out nose.

  “Stop,” I shouted. “Stop!” My eyes watering from the ache, I wanted to pass out.

  Then there was silence. I opened one eye at a time. Nothing. The house sat as if nothing had happened. I consciously slowed my breathing before I stood up. The hurt spiked again, staggering me. I went up to my bedroom and crawled back into bed.

  This time I slept like a rock. When I woke late in the afternoon, my sharp, throbbing headache had eased to a dull ache. Guilting myself into cleaning the mess I had left downstairs, I returned to the living room, armed with a wet wash cloth and a towel. But nothing was on the floor. No puddle, no broken glass. I checked the trash can. It held two empty bottles, but nothing else. I touched the floor, no trace of moisture.

  “What in the world?” I muttered and stumbled back into a chair. My thoughts swam. The memories that had been threatening to take over all day licked the edge of my consciousness. I finally let them through.

  The smell of coffee and pancakes wafted through the air, and kitchen sounds reached to the comfort of my soft, warm bed. I stretched under the covers then snuggled down further,
hoping for a last few moments of lingering sleep.

  “El, wake up! We have a long drive,” Danny’s deep voice called.

  I pulled the blankets over my head. I was having the most wonderful dream. Soon I heard his footsteps coming into the room. He tugged the covers back to whisper in my ear.

  “Ella, get up. I made breakfast.” He kissed my neck. Our dog Piper stood on me ready to play if given the slightest encouragement.

  “Mmmm, I’m up,” I said, turning my head to kiss him. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, sunshine. Get up, get dressed—we’re going to Montgomery today.” He ruffled Piper’s fuzzy little ears. She perked up and chewed on his hand.

  “Small town life. I can’t wait.”

  “Don’t be a smart ass. It’s not all that bad. We’ll never have that much room here.” Seeing that I still had doubts he played his trump card. “Besides, this way our children will have a yard to run and play in.”

  “Well, when you put it like that.” A smile spread over my face as I rolled out of bed.

  It was one of those perfect mornings where everything in the world was right and good. We ate breakfast and hit the road. It was was a four-hour drive to Montgomery, where Danny had grown up.

  As we drove, I reminded myself again of all the reasons moving was a good idea. Danny had good memories of this house and would always love it as home. It was also the last physical connection to his heritage.

  Danny was an only child, and his parents passed away when he was fourteen. His grandparents raised him and were the last of his family. Understandably he took their death extremely hard, so hard in fact, that though he’d inherited the house over a year ago, this was the first time we were making the trip to Montgomery to even look at the property.

  Like Danny, I had no family. I was brought up by a single mother who worked hard her entire life to provide me with the opportunities she never had. She passed away while I was in college. Danny and I had been there for each other through the good and the bad. We both understood loss and shared a strong desire for a large family full of children and joy. Danny was right: it would be perfect to have a large house in a small town to raise our family. Despite being a self-proclaimed city girl, I was excited.

  As we drove into Montgomery I couldn’t have been happier with the town. It looked perfect. Children were playing on the freshly mowed lawns. Cute, quaint shops were set up all around the business district. The town square looked like a Christmas village or something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Large trees sprinkled throughout the town made it green, shady, and peaceful. We drove down Main Street; I took in every detail my mind logging it for future stories.

  We turned down a street with an odd mixture of houses. The beginning of the street consisted of fairly new, modest homes, but as we continued on, the houses became older and statelier. Finally, the street ended at a large Victorian house. It was in need of some repair but for the most part it had been treated with love. In the back there was a large yard that met up with a wooded area.

  I could understand why Danny’s great, great, great, great grandfather, Jonah, would have chosen this spot for the house. It was gorgeous country. Jonah was one of the founding fathers of Montgomery and through his vision, foresight, and hard work, the town had prospered. Danny belonged here, it was in his blood, therefore so did I. Seeing the beautiful house filled me with happiness and contentment. Life was working out just as I had scarcely hoped it would. Danny wrapped his arms around my waist.

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s gorgeous!”

  “It’s just like I remember it.”

  I smiled at him over my shoulder. “Let’s go in, you can give me the grand tour.”

  We walked up to the porch, hand in hand. With every step closer to the house, however, the more uncomfortable I felt. Danny opened the door and strode in, but I hesitated before shaking the feeling off and joining him on the other side of the threshold. Claustrophobia blanketed me; I felt watched.

  The house had large rooms, high ceilings, and lots of light, but it seemed dark and crowded. Danny was oblivious. He walked around lost in memories with a smile on his face. I quickly looked for my source of discomfort. My eyes lingered on the door. I wanted to leave. I needed to escape. Danny came over to me and grabbed my hand with excitement, ending my chance to leave.

  He showed me every little detail of the house that meant something to him and told me a million stories that had flooded back into his memory. I couldn’t refuse to go with him, though each additional room made me feel more unwelcome and suffocated. It was a vile house and Danny’s words were lost on me because my mind refused to focus on anything besides my discomfort.

  By the end of the tour Danny started coming back to reality. He noticed the shift in my mood and set out to decipher why.

  “It’s old fashioned,” he said slowly, watching me, “but we can make it our own. It’s perfect and you know it. New furniture, some paint ... It’ll be completely different, you’ll see.”

  Standing back on the porch I was finally able to breathe again. “I don’t know, Danny. It’s not ... comfortable. I can’t place my finger on it, but I feel like an outsider, an intruder. It doesn’t feel like home.”

  “It’s just new to you, El. You’ll get used it. Give it a chance. This is what I want, what we wanted ... but if you are absolutely against it then we’ll sell.”

  I could see the sincerity and passion in his eyes. How could I break his heart? It was his dream house ... Surely I could manage.

  “I’m probably being stupid,” I finally mumbled. “It is a magnificent house—I’m sure it will be a blessing for our family. And I’ll have enough room to set up an office, plus Piper will have plenty of room to run and play—I’m sure it will be great.” I said trying for enthusiasm, but coming up just short.

  “We could even get another dog for her to play with,” Danny suggested, sensing my weakness. I had wanted to get Piper a friend for a while now, but Danny thought the apartment was too small for two dogs.

  I looked back at the house still feeling doubtful. “It’s great.”

  “You’ve said that.”

  “And I almost mean it.” I shrugged and fought for a cheerful note. “What doesn’t kill me will only make me stronger, right?”

  Danny grinned and slung his arm across my shoulders. We looked back at the stately home and saw our future.

  I opened my eyes, pulled out of the memory. Defeat and pain waltzed inside of me.

  “What doesn’t kill me will make me stronger … God, what an idiot I was,” I muttered. I glanced out the window into darkness. How much time did I lose this time? My stomach rumbled—Great, I’d forgotten to eat again today. Thankfully, it wasn’t too late for delivery. The sandwich delivery shop recognized my voice and I ordered my regular. With twenty minutes to waste, I made myself a drink and paced the living room, stomach rumbling impatiently.

  The sound of footsteps on the porch stopped my pacing dead. It was too soon for the delivery boy. I threw open the front door, trying to catch whatever was out there, but not really expecting to find anything. My heart skipped about ten beats when my eyes met another pair. A startled cry escaped my mouth and I took an instinctual step away. Detective Troy looked almost ready to scream too. His hand was still paused midair, ready to knock.

  “Uh, hi,” he said, taking a step back and frowning.

  “Back again?” was all I could think to say.

  “Yeah,” he said, lifting an eyebrow as if questioning whether or not that was all right.

  I narrowed my eyes, my heart still racing from shock. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

  “Not scared, just startled.”

  I stepped back to let him in the house.

  “Any strange occurrences today?” he asked in an official tone.

  “You have no idea,” I said but didn’t elaborate. He and I played this game often. He asked questions he really didn’t want to know the answers to;
and I didn’t really answer his questions.

  His eyes scanned the area. “It smells like alcohol in here.”

  “You’re quite the detective,” I said.

  Detective Troy wisely let the subject go. “I’ll be back. Are you staying here?”

  “Yeah.”

  I watched him jog up the stairs. I couldn’t get my mind around his faithful random checks. Did he believe me? Or did he have some angle? He’d investigated my life inside and out after the murder. He knew me better than any person in this town. Not because we were friends, but because outside of Susan and Doug I’d spoken more to him than any other person in Montgomery. In fact, after the murder I only spoke to him and my lawyer.

  He’d cleared me as a suspect—or at least they’d never been able to bring charges against me—but I wondered what he felt personally. My sandwich came while he was still searching the house for God only knows what. I took it into the kitchen to eat at the counter. When he was finished he found me.

  “Everything looks clear.”

  I nodded, faking interest.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  I nodded, not wanting my voice to betray the stress I felt. After Danny died I told anyone who would listen what had happened. All I accomplished was making people cross to the other side of the street when they saw me coming. Then the whispering about the crazy writer started. Detective Troy was kind, but his doubt was obvious. I no longer spoke of the odd things that happened at the house; I didn’t need or want the attention.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened today?” he asked, tilting his head slightly to the side.

  “No,” I replied curtly.

  He frowned, but nodded. “Have a good night.”

  He walked down the hall and I trailed him. Before he left, he turned back to me. “You know I only want to help. I’m not going to spread more gossip.”

  I made full eye contact, searching for the truth in his eyes. He seemed sincere. I did want to talk to someone and I almost told him. The words were ready to spill out of my mouth, but I swallowed them back down. It would have been so nice to have a shoulder to lean on, a voice of reason, but I couldn’t do it. I don’t do damsel in distress and he wasn’t my knight in shining armor.

  “Have a good night, Detective.”

  “Think about it,” he said softly, then trotted down the stairs to his car.

  I closed and locked the door behind him. There was nothing to think about it. I had already opened myself to enough ridicule. My stomach rumbled reminding me of the sandwich I abandoned in the kitchen. When I got there, however, the counter was sparkling clean and completely empty.

  “I hope you get food poisoning,” I shouted. I went to my bedroom talking to myself the whole way. I slipped into bed without turning on the lights, still pouting about my lost dinner. Immediately, I felt something cold and hairy at my feet. Imagines of The Godfather flashed in my head. I jumped out of bed faster than I had ever moved in my life and darted for the light. Doing a nervous dance I yanked the covers back. At foot of my bed lay a dead rat, its claws curled towards its body. Disgust engulfed me, followed by a weird sense of confusion. It didn’t seem very ghostly to leave a dead rat at the foot of my bed. In fact, I even had a villain in one of my books leave a rat at a victim’s house much like this … before he killed her.

  Not wanting to touch its filthy little body I went to the kitchen for a garbage bag. After a lot of hopping around and nervous disgust, I disposed of the rat as well as the sheets. With my bed freshly made, I tried to force myself to sleep, but the house was as active as ever. Almost like it was laughing at me.

  Chapter Four