Spirits Read online

  The man in the vest said, “I think we’re just about ready. Anyone want to start?”

  The woman at the front with Bracken stood up and said, “My name is Andrea, and I’m an alcoholic. It’s been seventy-six days since my last drink.”

  She droned like a Catholic confessing her sins. The whole thing seemed mighty judgmental for a Unitarian church, and Tori felt the sting of embarrassment upon her cheeks at the memory of Bracken’s burning lips upon hers. She’d have to stand up in front of everyone, including him, and admit she had a problem she wasn’t sure she was ready to admit she had.

  She listened intently to Andrea talk about how last week was a struggle, especially since Bracken won’t stop drinking himself.

  “Well, part of recovery is living in a world where people drink,” the man at the lectern said. “Don’t be too critical of your husband.”

  Husband. Husband!

  Tori leapt up and banged into the chair next to her. Amelia’s fingers dug into her arm, but she jerked away and sprang out the door with a chunk. The metal clunk of the door rang out again, but she was halfway up the stairs. She was about to shove open the front door when Amelia wheeled her around and said, “What the fuck is going on with you? You’re here to get help?”

  “I thought you weren’t going to nag me about this anymore,” Tori spat.

  Amelia reached around her and pressed a hand against the door, shutting her in. Tori tried to pull the door open, but the slight woman was stronger than she looked.

  “I think you need to get your things out of my house and leave. I’ve told you the conditions for living in my home. And if you’re unwilling to cooperate, you must go. I’ll escort you back to the house, and you get your things. If you refuse, I’ll just call the police.”

  Heat rose from within her clothes. It came with a bizarre nausea that almost made her puke. She doubled over for a moment, effectively homeless. Could she go back there and watch Bracken, Bracken who had pressed his serpent lips against hers, help his alcoholic wife? She lurched forward and out the door.

  Anxiety sank its claws into her chest for the whole walk back to Seaside House. Her breath came in gasps. Amelia wouldn’t even look at her. She walked, back stick-straight, like a marching robot. They climbed the front steps.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I want to go back. I can stop. I promise. I won’t touch another drop.”

  Amelia stared blankly ahead and pointed to the stairwell leading to the honeymoon suite.

  Tori walked up a few steps and stopped. The peeling yellow wallpaper rippled on a breeze. Something froze her to the spot, the sensation of something worming its way through her bloodstream. It wasn’t warm and radiant like the first gulps of liquor. It was cold and scaly. It had fangs.

  This bitch has to die. The blurry, delirious thing that lived in her blood whispered it in her ear. Her movements were controlled by this serpentine phantom. She climbed again, Amelia at her back. Tori hesitated at the door, paralyzed by what she had to do on the other side. The thing that had overtaken her was black and sticky and feasted upon the blood of others. Tori wanted to run to the ocean and drown herself there, swallow all the saltwater on the planet and sink to the bottom where the fish could eat her eyes. But this thing, it held her steady at the door, it turned the knob, it sent her directly to the table with the bottles. Amelia crossed her arms over her chest and watched, mouth turned downward in its judgmental disapproval.

  Who asked this bitch for her opinion, it growled in her head.

  Tori’s hand clutched the glass gin bottle. Queen Victoria scowled from the label. It felt simultaneously weightless and heavy. Tori held it up by the neck. Anger sizzled her scalp. Can I stop myself now? she wondered. Could I take another path? But her muscles moved. Something fluttered in front of her. A butterfly flapped its wings furiously, as if waving her off, pleading with her to fight it and regain control of her life. Her arm propelled itself forward and the bottle made a sickly blonk as it smashed into the flesh of Amelia’s head. She expected––wanted?––a scream, but Amelia only raised her hands and batted at the glass as it thudded against her forehead. Spatter ricocheted in slow motion and settled on Tori’s face and hands. The butterfly crumpled, imprinted in red, against the mass of viscera. The tiny black legs twitched. The wings trembled. Soon, it was still, smeared in goop. Deep red flowed from a spot beneath her clotted hair. Amelia went to her knees at first, putting her fingers to her scalp and pulling them away to see the damage inflicted. She flopped forward, thudding her chin against the hardwood floor. Tori brought the bottle down again, and it struck the back of her head with a cartoonish clunk. The sparks of life waned and died out.

  The bottled slipped from Tori’s hand. She stared at the woman sprawled face down. Dread prickled up her arms. Her chest huffed in jagged bursts, and small animal whines worked up from her guts. Her insides twisted, and she fell to the floor next to Amelia and tried to pick her up. She hooked her forearms under the woman’s limp armpits and pulled up. She was dead weight. Amelia’s mouth fell open and her tongue edged its way out.

  Tori brought the body back down across her lap and smacked the bloody face with her palm, willing her to wake up and move. Amelia’s skin felt wet and cold. Soon, the soggy sound of skin slapping skin made Tori recoil, and she shoved Amelia’s body away from her.

  Tori scampered backward until she slumped against the wood of the bed. She climbed over the footboard and scurried to the headboard. She stuffed a pillow into her face and screamed.

  When the all the air had been expended from her lungs, she shoved herself under the fluff of the blankets and rocked back and forth. The only light that came into the comforter-cocoon was the dull lamplight that peeked through the borders. Her breath was irregular and before long, the black sucked her in completely.

  The bombastic crash of a headache wrenched Tori from the blackout. Her knuckles ached as she clutched the thick blanket against her face. She released the cloth and pulled it back, body trembling at the thought of what might greet her on the other side. Silence. Beyond the windows, the ocean breathed in and out. A light breeze flapped the purple awning that covered the deck just below her room. It seemed … normal. How could anything be normal?

  Her body swayed upright. Sunlight, soft and serene, filtered through the thin curtains. She threw her legs over the edge of the bed and flung herself to the floor. She crawled on her hands and knees across the hardwood around the bed.

  She held her breath and closed her eyes. She opened them, expecting to see a tangled mass of black-blood goop tangled in Amelia’s hair, her body cold and blue against the floor, puddles spreading out across the otherwise polished floorboards.

  Instead, she saw nothing. The floor was clean and bare where Amelia should’ve been. The gin bottle was clean and bright on the writing desk where it tempted her with its bittersweet promise of relief. She heeded its call and pushed herself to her feet. Tori inspected the bottle for some sign, any sign, that it had been used as a weapon. She stared at the clean, clear glass for cracks or blood droplets. When she found nothing, she twisted the cap and swigged it. The medicinal fluid flooded her mouth and quenched the undying urge that itched beneath her flesh.

  The buzz coursed through her veins, but the sledgehammer headache hit her so hard, she nearly collapsed. She had to know, so she turned and made her way, step by excruciating step, to the stairwell. Tori clutched the dark oak railing and made her way down. The trip took much longer than it should have. If her body still belonged to her, she would’ve thrown herself down from the top floor. But she couldn’t even force herself to do that. It wanted her to suffer.

  On the bottom landing, she steadied herself against the wall. The flap of yellow wallpaper scratched her leg. Her ears strained. The silence saturated the room so thick, it overwhelmed her and made her dizzy. The room blurred. She took a tentative step off the landing and onto the threadbare rug that ran the expanse of the foyer. The desk was cluttered with papers. The back edge of t
he desk was lined with photographs in silver, contemporary frames. It looked out of place in a house decorated top to bottom in Victoriana. All of the photos were of Amelia and her husband. He’d been handsome. A beard that could’ve used a trim exploded from his face, but a pair of expressive eyes peeked out from the hair. He looked strong and fit, almost like a Viking. He seemed an odd match for someone as unassuming as Amelia. Still, their faces beamed in the photographs. He held her from behind, resting his head on her shoulder in one. In another, he knelt on one knee, arm outstretched to her, as if he was serenading her in silent song. Her face was permanently frozen in love glow, eyes aflutter to the sky, hand on heart. A moment in twilight. Sun through the window illuminated a million dust motes. Tori’s guts turned and tears gurgled up and burned her sinuses. She tried to call out, but her voice hitched in her throat.

  It was all overwhelming, and desperation flickered for just a moment in her mind. That desire for an easy way out sparked back to life. There was a time, maybe hundreds of crises ago, when she would’ve chosen the door out. Pills or a rope over the shower rod. She’d pulled herself out of enough jams to know she’d done it before, and it could be done again. She just had to figure out what was going on. That seemed like an insurmountable task now, but she’d puzzle it out.

  She’d been broke, living off of canned tuna and stale, outlet store bread after Tim kicked her out. There were days the vacant, growling hunger and emotional despair of being disposed of like a holey pair of socks nearly knocked her out of the game. But she’d held fast. She pulled together a hodgepodge of clients, one more ragtag than the last. These companies were mostly on the brink of bankruptcy and could only afford barebones marketing campaigns. Some of them survived thanks to her services. Some failed. But she thrived. Soon, those companies that benefited from her pluckiness started giving her referrals. And word-of-mouth got around until she moved out of the hotbox apartment into a gated community.

  And just like that, she’d descended back into Hell.

  Tori sucked in a breath and released it. She tried it a few more times, pressed her hands against her knees, and stepped on the balls of her feet to the back of the house.

  The cherry dining room table just off the foyer was set for breakfast with gleaming china and polished silverware. She turned and walked into the kitchen. The sink was empty. Rows of glasses shone brilliantly against the sunlight coming in across the house. The tile floor was spotless. Spotless. Spots. Spots of blood everywhere. Tori clutched the edge of the granite countertop and slipped until she fell flat to the ground. Her cheek ached from the impact. The drive to know propelled her up off the floor and onto her feet again. There was a small bathroom off of the kitchen, and she ducked inside. Empty. She knew it would be empty. The desperation to find her propelled Tori back into the kitchen. She sucked in a long breath and retraced her steps through the still, empty house.

  Back up the stairs, she stopped on the second floor. The door to Amelia’s room was open, but she stalled there. Some frayed thread of decorum glued her to the spot. She couldn’t invade that sanctuary, desperate as she was to know. The bed was made.

  “Amelia?”

  The words were hoarse and dry in her throat. The sound of her own voice in the dead silence made her stomach flop.

  Silence crept around her and nearly suffocated her like a blanket.

  Tori tapped on the door as if she needed something but didn’t want to make too much of a fuss. Yes, I may have just killed you, and I hope it’s not too much of an imposition, but could you just show up, alive or dead, and let me know. Thanks so much!

  “Amelia?”

  She listened beyond the doorway but heard nothing.

  Shadows crept across the walls as the sun made its slow ascent, and she wheeled around, expecting to see something.

  “Amelia!”

  Her voice strained.

  A million thoughts swirled in her mind. Had she called 911? Maybe she’d fled to seek medical attention. Tori couldn’t be entirely sure she’d even hit her. A sickly green feeling wriggled up in her stomach, and she retched yellow gunk all over the floor.

  None of this made sense. There had been a voice, something that compelled her to attack. Even at her drunkest, even at her angriest, she’d never so much as slapped another person. Visions of the night that woman attacked her at the Carriage House came flooding back. That woman was going to hit her, and all Tori could do was watch and flinch. Even then, she hadn’t been able to fight back. She reasoned it all in her head, as if trying to convince a jury of spirits that settled around her in judgment.

  She tiptoed around the vomit dotting the floor. Her heart caught in her throat as she pressed herself against the wall. Her ears strained for the voices, but there was nothing. She doubled over and lunged into the bathroom.

  The second-floor communal bath’s floor had a permanent layer of grit from thousands of sandy bare feet padding to and from the toilet and bathtub. Tori leaned over the toilet and vomited clear fluid into it. Shuddering, she peeled off her clothes and shuffled to the glass-encased shower. The mirror over the sink revealed brown-red droplets across her ghost-pale face. She screeched open the glass. Nightmare memories of the telephone booth at the dead end swirled in her mind. The voice from the phone echoed.

  She stepped in and yanked the door shut until it sealed.

  The water sprayed down cold at first. It shocked her back to life and gradually warmed. Red gathered at the drain, and she stumbled backward. It smelled rusty, and soon it ran clear. Tori unwrapped a bar of soap and ran it over her body, lathering up the grime and sweat that lived on her skin.

  There was something about the boxed-in shower that made her feel safe and protected, even from the undulating tremors that constantly tormented her. It was the same comfort a blanket gave her. She knew the enclosure couldn’t protect her, but it bought her a moment of peace, and she relished it even if she knew she’d have to leave the sanctuary and face reality sooner or later. Perhaps it was the same false sense of security that makes people hide under the blankets when they hear a strange noise in the night. Do they really think the blanket will stop someone from murdering them? Probably not. But it’s soothing all the same.

  She closed her eyes, letting the warmth envelope her and the soap wash away all the bad things. Her eyes snapped open at a sound she couldn’t quite place. A beige outline blurred against the pebbled glass of the shower doors. Her eyes were trained on it, hunting for movement. It was statue-still. A flinch shuffled the watercolor-painting blur, and Tori gasped.

  “Who’s there?”

  Her voice bounded off the glass. Every nerve tensed in her body. Exposed and vulnerable, a real person was far more of a threat than any ghostly figure. The enclosed shower grew darker. The chunky, grunting sound of someone clearing their throat rang out.

  She pressed her back against the smooth, cold tile. A sliver of shock went down her spine. The blurred, beige blob on the other side of the glass neared. It touched the handle to the door, and the entire glass rattled.

  Tori tried to breathe around the lump in her throat. Hot tears worked up in her eyes. The water continued its steady strum, but all the comfort it previously held was gone.

  “Who. Is. There!”

  The door edged open, and some of the shower spray trickled onto the floor.

  Tori shouted. Her arms went defensively to her breasts, and her leg lifted instinctively to accommodate some modicum of modesty.

  It was coming in. A yellow, puffy hand waved, almost like a party clown waves at a little kid. Its breath was heavy, perfumed with rot and the all-too-familiar fumes of booze.

  “Hey, Pumpkin!”

  The voice growled, hard from a life of whiskey sours and too many Marlboro Reds.

  Her tears came in jagged bursts now as she watched her father climb into the shower with her. He was swollen to twice his normal size. His skin looked like a bruised banana peel.

  “What’s the matter, kiddo? Why don’t yo
u get on out of the shower, and I’ll take you down to the Nut House for some pecan bars. Then maybe we’ll hit the beach. Gotta pick up provisions first. All out of Bacardi. Whaddya say? I’ll even give you a sip of my rum and Coke. It’s been a while since you last had a drink. Isn’t it about time for another?”

  Tori stared. The water arced around him, never touching his clothes. He wore a brown sheepskin car coat and the floppy, green fisherman’s hat that made him look moronic. But the hateful glare in his eyes chilled her down to her bones, and she screamed so loud, the reverberation rang out in her ears. She retreated to the tile wall behind her and raised an arm across her breasts.

  “Dad?” The word croaked from her throat. The sound even shocked her.

  He extended a cartoonish, bloated hand. His expression was tender and empathetic. Fatherly. The word infuriated Tori. Her father had never been fatherly.

  “Come on. Get out of the shower. It’s time to get something to drink. I know you’re thirsty, baby.”

  The whole-body tremors overtook her. She needed to get out. She needed to drink. Her throat felt like hot sand. A heavy weight settled on her as she gathered her wits. If he was standing before her, bloated and smelly, a vague betrayal of himself, he must be …

  She bashed herself against the glass, and the door shimmied open. She felt exposed and scampered to pull a towel from the shelf above the toilet tank and wrapped her body in it, eyes trained on the shower.

  The tinkle of water against the bare tile floor was the only sound. She couldn’t see inside. The door she’d opened swayed almost shut again. She hesitated for a moment, then moved, each step a shamble. She put a hand to the door and nudged it open with her fingertips, too afraid to reach out completely, lest something clutch her by the wrist.

  The stall was empty.

  She stood shivering and wet, confounded and horrified.