Rancor: Sinister Attachments, Book 1 (15 page)

That Saturday afternoon turned dark from the storm, making it seem as though it was the middle of the night. The rain smacking into the porch doors caused them to rattle as Maggie put the skeleton key into Bruce's door and unlocked it. She turned the doorknob and opened it.

Flashes of lightning through the windows revealed an abandoned apartment. Not abandoned by Bruce, but by a renter who left without clearing the table or even bothering to take all of their belongings with them. The Formica table and the turquoise vinyl chairs were the same she had sat in when Bruce invited her to supper, except dust covered the seats. The table had the rose porcelain teapot and three teacups, one of which looked recently used. By her? Had she sleepwalked and dreamed she had tea with Bruce?

“See, Maggie, no one lives here,” Ethel said, standing at the door.

“It was so real. I've been in here because that's the cup I drank from; it had chamomile tea and honey.”

Ethel saw the recently used cup.

“Maggie, I fear that you've stepped through a veil into the spirit world,” Ethel said, backing up. “Please close the door.”

Maggie pulled the door shut and walked to Debbie's apartment. Her hands fumbled turning the key in the lock. She knew this apartment would be empty, too. She opened the door, and as a bright flash of lightning filled the room, she saw Debbie and Bruce standing side-by-side, looking at her. Thunder instantly cracked, causing the electricity to go out. But as the lightning flashed like strobe lights, she saw them raise their arms toward her, summoning her to enter.

Ethel pulled Maggie backward and closed the door. “Let's get your things, now, and get out of here.”

Maggie was shocked and confused as Ethel took the key from Maggie's hand, went to her apartment, and opened the door. “Do you have a flashlight?” She looked at Maggie whose brain was still digesting the events. She shook Maggie's shoulders. “Maggie, snap out of it. We need light.”

Ethel's touch brought Maggie back. She reached into her purse and took out her phone to use as a light, but it would not power on. “The batteries must be dead.”

“Get your computer and anything important that you can carry and let's get out of here. You're never coming back to this room.” Ethel stepped into the apartment while the air alternated between flashes of light and pitch-blackness. She walked forward, tripped, and fell. She moaned.

Maggie went up to her. “Are you all right?”

Ethel held her hip as Susie's teddy bear sat solemnly on the floor looking at them. “I tripped on that damned bear and I hurt my hip.”

“Is it broken?”

Ethel wiggled her toes and then raised a knee. “I don't think so, but I'm not going to be able to walk so well.”

“Stay there,” Maggie said, going to the kitchen. She put her laptop and camera into her backpack and then rushed about the apartment filling it to overflowing. She put her purse cross-body and then put the pack on her back before kicking the bear into a corner and kneeling down next to Ethel. “I'll help you up.”

Ethel groaned in pain as she limped to the door with Maggie acting as a crutch. When they walked out of the apartment, the power flickered back on. “We'll have to take the elevator because I can't walk down the steps.”

Maggie did not want to go into that contraption, but she was not strong enough to carry Ethel. “What if the power goes out while we're in there?”

“You're right, let's take the stairs.”

Then the elevator door opened, waiting for them to enter.

“I'm still not going in there,” Maggie said, helping Ethel to the stairs.

“Someone's coming up the stairs,” Ethel said, looking toward the first-floor lobby.

“You see her?” Maggie was relieved that Ethel could see what she was seeing. Unfortunately, what Maggie was seeing was Susie walking one slow jittery step at a time toward them.

“We have to get to my apartment where it's safe,” Ethel said as they stood there watching Susie get closer. “Can we walk past her?”

Another surge of adrenaline shot through Maggie's body. “No, she has a knife.”

THIRTY

“Let's go back in my apartment,” Maggie said, helping Ethel turn. But there was no going back, Debbie and Bruce were blocking the entry. “I guess the elevator is our only way out of here.”

Ethel's cigar—which she held clenched in her teeth—fell to the dirty floor as they tried to make it to the elevator before the spirits reached them. 

They went inside the ancient elevator, and Maggie began franticly pressing the first-floor button. The door was not closing. Susie was coming into view . . . Susie and the knife . . . Susie and the bloody knife. The child's head faced the floor as stringy hair covered her face.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Maggie said, repeatedly pressing the button as Susie reached the second floor and turned toward them.

Ethel reached up and touched the side of Maggie's face. “Calm down and think. Think of surrounding us with white light, child. Close your eyes and feel it.”

Maggie was about to scream before Ethel touched her face. She felt a calmness fill her as she closed her eyes and did as Ethel said. The elevator doors closed; she opened her eyes. They were descending.

The lights in the cab blinked on and off. Maggie looked at Ethel who appeared to have put herself into a trance. She looked back toward the door as the elevator stopped. If the doors opened in the basement, she would have to die and put an end to this misery because she could not take it any longer.

As the door screeched open, Maggie saw Mr. Zimmerman's office—still vacant of the superintendent. They were on the first floor. “Ethel, time to go.”

“No, not to your car,” Ethel said, resisting Maggie's efforts to leave the building. “They'll follow us. We need to go to my apartment where it is safe, and we'll be protected.”

Maggie let out a deep breath and looked toward the stairway; Susie was on her way down. “You better be right because they could hack through your door or break your windows to get in.”

Ethel winced as Maggie pulled her faster than she wanted to go. “They're spirits, Maggie, not live humans.”

When they reached Ethel's apartment, they went inside and locked the door. Maggie helped Ethel to the couch, gently putting her legs up and a pillow under her head.

“Maggie, bring me that tin box,” Ethel said, pointing toward a shiny golden box on a shelf.

Maggie brought the box to her. She watched as Ethel took out a canister and handed it to her. “I've already done this, but take this blessed salt and pour it at the base of the door and the windows; it will keep them from getting in.”

She did as Ethel instructed, first pouring a thin line in front of the door. Then she went to the windows, moved the closed curtains aside, and poured some along the windowsill. She looked out into the storm, seeing nothing but torrential rain and lightning, no spirits. When she finished, she went back to Ethel. “It's done.”

Ethel grimaced as she changed positions on the sofa. “We'll be fine. Soon they'll go back where they came from.”

Maggie watched as Ethel rubbed her right hip. “I think you should go to the emergency room and get an x-ray, it could be broken.”

“It's fine,” she said, disregarding Maggie's suggestion. “It's just my arthritis. Whenever a joint gets moved more than it should, my arthritis kicks in and causes trouble.” She pulled herself up to a half-sitting position. “Speaking of trouble, I could use the oxycodone in my kitchen cabinet by the sink. It's sitting next to a bottle of bourbon—bring them both, will ya, dear?”

Maggie put her hands on her hips. “I'll get them for you but you know you're not supposed to take a narcotic with alcohol.”

Ethel smiled. “I'm in severe pain. I just need something to ease it and help me relax.”

Maggie returned with the pill bottle, a glass of water, and the bourbon whiskey, sitting them on the end table next to the couch. She watched as Ethel took a pill and washed it down with water. “Thank you for not drinking the whiskey.”

Ethel leaned back as the apartment lights flickered. “The bourbon is my backup.”

“Should I call the police?” Maggie asked, keeping her eyes on the door.

“The police for what; to report ghosts are chasing you? They won't believe you and besides, there's nothing they could do anyway.”

Maggie walked to the wall phone. “We should check on Mr. Zimmerman and make sure he's okay.”

“The number's right there by the phone.”

Maggie dialed Mr. Zimmerman, but as usual, there was no answer. “When is the last time you saw Mr. Zimmerman?”

Ethel took the bottle of bourbon into her hand. “It's been a couple days . . . maybe a few days, but I don't see him that often, anyway.”

“Could those spirits harm him?” Maggie sat in the dusty wing chair. “Susie had a knife, and she went to the third floor.”

Ethel opened the bottle and took a swig of the biting liquid. “Maybe.”

“I need to check on him,” Maggie said, leaning forward with elbows on her knees. “I haven't seen him since the first day I moved in.”

Ethel took one more swig and repositioned her pillow. “It's not safe for you, or I, to go back out there. We'll check on Mr. Zimmerman in the morning. I'm sure he's fine . . . At least I hope so.”

THIRTY-ONE

Maggie walked into Ethel’s spare room. It smelled of mothballs and burnt sage. She wanted to plug her cell phone into an outlet, but she had left the charger in her apartment during the rush to get out; she would go to her apartment in the morning and retrieve it. Until then, she would crawl into bed and forget about the day while Ethel slept on the couch.

She lay in bed, looking around the dark room. The thick walls of the old building dulled the sound of thunder, but not enough for her to forget there was a storm outside. She considered the possibility of spirits reaching through the walls, grabbing her, and carrying her to Hell with them. 

Maggie left her bedroom door open, wanting some connection with Ethel, who seemed to know how to keep them safe. She could hear Ethel set a bottle on the end table. She must have swallowed more whiskey, Maggie thought as she turned on her side and closed her eyes.

***

Maggie stood on a dock next to a thirty-six-foot mahogany cruiser. On the deck was Debbie, dressed in a pink and white string bikini and big sunglasses. Maggie quickly looked at her clothes, hoping she was not dressed the same way. She was relieved to see sandals on her feet, and shorts and a blouse covering the rest of her body.

“Are you coming or not?” Debbie asked. She was so giddy that she fell into Bruce, who had walked up next to her.

Maggie heard waves lap against the hull and their hollow swish underneath the dock. She felt a warm breeze against her hot skin. It must be close to ninety degrees, she thought. When she looked at Bruce, he was smiling at her. His belted green and black striped swim trunks suddenly made her realize she was back in time and looking at Dr. Bruce Hancock and Deborah, the nurse.

Bruce held out a hand. “I’ll help you, I won’t let you fall.”

Maggie did not want to get on the boat. Nothing good was going to come from being around Bruce and Deborah. She began turning around and was about to walk away when Bruce reached for her and pulled her into the boat.

“We’re all aboard,” Bruce shouted toward the helm. He held her close to his body before releasing her and untying the boat from the dock’s cleats.

Maggie reassured herself that this was only a dream and that she would wake up in Ethel’s apartment soon. When she turned around, she saw a man at the helm. He looked like the man in the photograph in Mr. Zimmerman’s office. This had to be Mr. Zimmerman’s father. He gave the boat’s horn one blast and then left the dock, pulling into the fairway toward Lake Michigan.

“Are you seasick, Margaret?” Deborah asked, leaning against the guardrail. Then she picked up a nautical beach towel and made her way to the foredeck before Maggie had a chance to answer.

Maggie watched Bruce follow Deborah to the bow, like a dog in heat. However, she decided to stay where she was; she did not want to get close to the people who—according to a previous flashback—wanted to blame her for Susan’s death. What was the point of this dream? She held her hair, keeping it from turning into a tangled mess, as the captain left the channel and headed toward the open water. The boat bounced and waves splashed until they reached an area far from the shoreline.

The captain turned off the engine and approached Maggie with a bottle of Scotch in his hand and some plastic cups. Maggie stared at the bottle of brown liquid. All she could think of was Claudia’s words when she had first met her at Lenny’s Grocery.
My daddy once said Carl killed a man out there on the water, right there in front of Lake Shore Sanatorium—all liquored up on Scotch, he was.

He handed her a cup with a couple shots. “Here you go, ma’am.”

Maggie took the cup from him, and then asked, “Is your name Carl?”

He smiled and tipped his white sailor cap. “Captain Carl Zimmerman, at your service.”

Maggie imagined she looked as white as a ghost, but she was not a ghost; he was the ghost. He was someone from the past, someone who killed a man.

“You don’t have sea legs, do you, ma’am?” he said.

Maggie’s mouth was dry. “It’s just that you look familiar. Do you have any children?”

“I have one son, Carl Jr. He works as a janitor at that God-awful place they call a hospital.” He poured himself a shot of Scotch into a cup, swallowed it, and pointed toward the distant shore. “That’s the place right there. They call it Lake Shore Sanatorium and Psychiatric Hospital.” He leaned so close to her that she could smell the liquor on his breath. He whispered, “I think the people who work there should be patients. They’re all off their rockers. I heard that if there is one more incident they’re going to shut that place down, and people are going to pay. Some will lose their professional licenses and others will get jail time; serves them bastards’ right for treating innocent people like dogs.”