Drt (9 page)

The summer air was perfumed with fresh cut grass and the smell of cooking food. I inhaled this mix; it brought no memory that could give me comfort. The only house in the neighborhood that did not exhibit any sign of mirth was the small gray house across the street. .
 

I keyed the door and walked inside, my eyes on the floor. I felt the cold air and thought that I must have left the air conditioner on. I looked up and I was staring at the ghost of Jerry Morris, in my home. My stomach dropped.

He sat on my bed, his legs curled beneath him as he bled into my mattress, a thick red oil surrounding him. The direction of his gaze was hard to determine, he didn’t acknowledge my arrival. The room smelled like exhaust. I stepped backward to run back out but the door behind me had disappeared. There was only a solid wall where the door had once stood. I turned around and pressed my back to it. Jerry still hadn’t acknowledged me.
 

I was too scared to think or say a word. I had no idea what was going to happen. The figure of Jerry Morris pulled its hand from its face. Its eyes looked dark. It did not speak but instead emitted a sound like a curled growl. The room was dark, the furniture could only be seen as outlined shadows. Above the bed was a yellow light, I couldn’t see if it had affixed itself to the wall or hung there unassisted. It blinked casually, like a street light or emergency flashers that were nearing the end of their juice. The sound of a heartbeat was taking over all other noises in the room until it was the only thing I could hear.
 

I slid down to the floor keeping my back pressed against the wall behind me. The flashing yellow light was now behind Jerry's head, wreathing him in the pale glow, glaring off the oily red pool on the mattress. I tried to look away but was locked on this vision before me.
 

The ghost just sat there, purring like a demon, drowned out by the incessant beating of the heart. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to figure out why the ghost was here. I knew that I was in some way responsible, but I had no idea what to do. Then I decided to act.
 

“I'm sorry,” I said out loud.
 

The ghost’s gaze snapped to me. It was staring at me now, directly in my eyes. Behind him, the light started flashing a little brighter. My throat closed from panic. The pounding sound of the heartbeat in the room slowed but grew louder. It was loud enough that everything shook on each hit.
 

“I knew about the car. I just wasn't paying attention when you called me.”

The demonic purr grew louder, rivaling the still thundering heartbeats. The light behind him was brighter, slower, and more deliberate. Then the heartbeat sound that dominated the room quickened slightly. Jerry stared at me and his face disappeared in shadow as he rose from the bed. His eyes had not been visible before but now were glowing in red beams. I couldn’t look directly at the beams, because they burned my eyes like a laser.

The figure kept growing. The yellow of the flashing light melted into the same red as Jerry’s eyes. The room was filling with shadow, the walls and furniture disappeared. I fell backwards and the room was gone. The form that was Jerry had now grown almost ten feet in the air. The red beams of light from his eyes acted like a spotlight on me, the light behind him now pulsing with the same rhythm and intensity as the pounding in the room. My ears ached, I shielded my eyes uselessly.

“I’m sorry! I wasn't paying attention and I am sorry!”

I felt something grab me. I could no longer see or hear anything, but I felt it. It gripped my windpipe and twisted it from inside my throat. I fought for whatever drop of breath I could get. The grip closed like a vice. The heart sounds slowed to a terrible drum beat. It pounded once every couple of seconds, continuing to shake everything around me. I felt terrible pain in my ears. Jerry hovered, terrible and demonic in the darkness. His eyes narrowed.
 

I reached instinctively to find the hand that was crushing my windpipe. I waved pathetically in the air, not able to stop it. I heard myself making small panting sounds.
 

I got just enough air to gasp out a plea. “Please. I will do…whatever you want…please...”

The tightness in my neck slacked. It still felt hot, but I could breathe. I gasped and took in some rattling, labored breaths. I was dropped to the ground in a heap. I hung my head on all fours. I pushed my forehead against the floor and sucked in air with a feverish frenzy, not knowing if the hand would return to finish the job. I noticed while I was looking at the floor the red flashing light had turned back to yellow. The heartbeat in the room had returned to its normal pace and volume.
 

I gathered myself to my feet. I looked at Jerry. He looked like a man again. His clothes were ripped up and flesh was hanging from him. He came down off the bed and when he landed on the floor there was a wet slap from the blood that covered his feet.
 

I looked at his face and saw nothing but sadness. Jerry had the crushed look of someone whose depression and despair was absolute, the kind that gets inside you and becomes your entire being. I recognized the look, because I identified.

The holes of light that had been his eyes were gone and the impossibly bloodshot brown eyes were back. I looked at him and realized that I had just made a promise.
 

“What do you need me to do?”

Jerry looked startled, as if he was surprised that I had guessed it without further prodding. Suddenly, I felt a blast of light in my eyes and I was falling through darkness. I fell and fell before landing on the hardwood floor of my room with a crack. The room was back to normal. The whisper of a voice as if carried by a draft filled the room.
 

“You have one week.”
 

12

So I had a week. Seven days. I wasn’t sure if it was seven days to the minute but it didn’t really matter. I knew that I had to do something and the clock was ticking. Jerry Morris meant business and I needed to figure out what exactly this business was.

At this point in the story, I should confess something. As I sat there on the floor of my shitty, one bedroom existence, I felt like I missed an opportunity. I felt like a CEO of a corporation who missed a million dollar deal because he was afraid to get on a plane. Instead of sitting in my own ruin here on the floor of a life I didn’t want to live, I could have been dead.

Suicide had been in my thoughts a lot lately, even before the resounding rejection from Be Well. I thought about jumping off a building but that seemed too dramatic, shooting myself would involve a gun that I didn’t have, and other methods sounded undesirable somehow. I felt like I was trapped. I felt like I was standing in the rain with no umbrella, afraid to walk into shelter. So I just had to stand there, in a joyless life of constant agony, unable to avoid the onslaught of never ending sadness. I often thought about my days back at the sports network, when I was happy. I had fond memories of those days. The path back to the days where my life was worth living seemed blocked off.
 

There’s something worse in life than suicide. I was too scared to go through with it. I was too miserable to live and too scared to die. I could admire the people with the courage to pull the trigger. I had spent over a decade living a life of mere subsistence. I lived, and that was the whole of my accomplishments. I ate and slept at an assigned seat, and the only way I could discern one day from the next was if I worked that day and at what time I started.
 

Jerry Morris had given me a chance. He offered to cut me loose of this torture. He offered relief and I got scared. He said, ‘Seven Days’. I supposed that he meant to kill me in seven days. I looked forward to it more than I dreaded it.
 

There was some curiosity, though. What did he want me to do? How was I supposed to find this out? Where do I begin?
 

I thought of the crumpled piece of paper in my pocket, the piece of notebook with torn edges and a phone number written in blue ink. Sylvia. The possibility of calling her had seemed like some unlikely fantasy before Jerry had shown up. Now it had to happen, tonight, because as far as I knew, I only had seven days left to live.

I fished the cellphone out of my shorts and the scrap of notebook paper was clapped inside of it. I flipped the plastic clam shell open and pushed the corresponding numbers. It still hadn’t occurred to me what I might say when I started dialing.

“Hello?”

“Sylvia?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“It’s Greg, the guy that came to the support group today? The new guy?”

“Of course, I remember you Greg. You made quite an impression. I thought I might hear from you soon.”

“I hope it’s not too soon. Am I bothering you? I can call later if you want.”
 

“No Greg, you aren’t bothering me. I am happy to hear from you.” Her voice was assuring.

“Well…the thing about today.”

“Greg…now…I need you to tell me everything. Start at the beginning, where your problems started.”

I hesitated, suddenly regretting the decision to call Sylvia. “Who are you?”

“That is a pretty broad question, Greg. What information are you looking for?”

“Why are you interested in my situation? Do you know how to help me?”

“Of course. Well, you know my name is Sylvia. I am the founding member of the Be Well group and I am a therapist. I used to suffer from acute anxiety syndrome. I learned to manage it and I spend almost every hour of my day helping people.”
 

“Am I being billed for this?”
 

“No, I’m taking you on because it seems like you need help, and you’re a good challenge.”

“So I’m your challenge? I don’t think it’s really that complicated.”
 

“Well, I have my pen out and I am ready to listen. Maybe it’s not that complicated but I am excited to find out!”

“When you say my problems, what do you mean?”

“Greg, it’s best for you to be honest. I ask because anxiety usually starts with depression. In synapse terms, it’s the same chemical pathway. Unchecked depression is the seed that eventually blossoms into panic attacks. Have you had depression?”
 

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know, a long time.”
 

“Have you ever sought therapy before?”

“…”
 

“It’s okay Greg. Many people have depression. We’ve all been there. Have you had thoughts of suicide?”

“I want to tell you about the ghost. That’s the most pressing issue.”
 

“Whatever you feel comfortable with.”

“I started seeing it on Thursday morning.”

“I remember you saying you have a reason that you started seeing the ghost, what was that?”

“I think I am responsible for his death.”

“…”

“Responsible as in, neglect, I should have told him something.”

“…”

“He called me on the traffic tip line and I neglected to tell him about a disabled vehicle up ahead.”

“…”
 

“The disabled vehicle he minutes later swerved to avoid and crashed into the trees.”

“What if the phone call dropped?”

“It didn’t. I hung up.”

“But what if the call had dropped? Would it be your fault then?”

“It didn’t drop.”

“Was he going too fast?”

“Yes, but all the cars on the Beltway at that hour-”

“Did you make him go too fast? Did you press the accelerator?”

“No.”

“So whose fault is the speed?”

“It doesn’t matter. The ghost still holds me responsible.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t…I just get that impression.”

“How do you get that impression?”

“He tried to kill me.”

“…”

“Just now...”

“How did he try to kill you?”

“He was choking me.”

“Just before you called me?”

“Yes.”

“So, why didn’t he kill you?”

“Because I told him I would do whatever he wanted.”

“What happened when you told him that?”

“He stopped.”

“He stopped what?”

“Trying to kill me.”

“Did he say what he wanted you to do?”

“He just said ‘Seven Days’.”

“Like The Ring?”

“The what?”

“The movie, with the girl in the well.”

“…”

“Never mind. So you have to figure out what the ghost wants in seven days?”

“I guess.”
 

“…Greg, I am going to be honest with you.”
 

“Okay.”

“You have some pretty severe problems. You are going through what clearly seems to be a reaction to some kind of trauma. Whether or not this ghost is real is irrelevant. I mean, it isn’t real but it still serves a purpose.”
 

“What purpose?”
 

“Well, the ghost said that it wants you to do something, right?”
 

“Yes.”
 

“In my opinion, you should do it.”

“But the ghost said I had only a week to do it.”
 

“Then I guess you better get to work, Greg.”

“So you don’t think I am crazy?”

“…”

“Sylvia?”

“I think that you should do what the ghost has asked you to do. It seems important.”
 

“I really don’t know where to start. I’m…scared.”
 

“It’s okay that you’re scared. Let’s just deal with what we have here. I think you should do whatever helps you cope right now. If learning things about that driver is going to soothe your anxiety, I say go for it. Go pick up a newspaper and read about him.”

“That was a couple of days ago.”

“Maybe they have an obituary. Maybe there are funeral arrangements. Look online. I don’t know, look for something. You’re a reporter.”
 

“I do traffic and before that it was just sports.”
 

“You had to ask people questions in that job, too. I have a lot of faith in you. I think that your life will be a lot different once you find what you are looking for.”