The Graveyard Shift (18 page)

George. I’m here.

“No! You shut your filthy mouth!”

Where had she gone? Had he moved her and forgotten about it? All at once his memory seemed like a sponge. It was pliable and porous, an untrustworthy thing. And his head felt thick and slow. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to be in his bed, resting away this awful feeling that he was no longer in control of his own mind. His hands were sweaty and he dragged the good one across the top of his balding head. The thought of bed brought a wan smile to his lips and he sighed. The most important thing was for him to rest. Even the mystery of the mislaid mannequin was a result of his stress and sleep deprivation, he knew.

“Not yet,” he told himself.
“Soon.”

I’m waiting.

“Yes,” George said, picking up the dead woman’s feet. “I know.”

A minute later he had dragged Rosa past his bed and across the length of the main room. Still there was no sign of her plastic twin, but George did not let this bother him. The things that no longer made sense to him about that evening—and there were many of them—he had forfeited to resolving later, once his mind was again trustworthy.

George grunted as he pulled the giant blue burrito up the stairs. Rosa’s head
thunked
against bare wooden risers with every step, her neck giving the occasional crack. It was a tough trip, moving her dead weight up the incline with only one good hand, and George was thankful that he’d finished digging the hole in the shed earlier that afternoon. The last two steps were the worst, with George wincing as muscles strained in his back. He gave one last great heave before his backside connected with the door. Had he closed that?

George huffed. He let the girl’s feet loose, and when she did not slide downward, he turned to open the door. The knob would not budge. It was locked, from the outside. But frustrating as that was, it was also perplexing, because the knob itself had no lock. The only way to seal that door reliably was with the padlock. George shook the door by its handle and heard the lock clank against the brass housing on the other side. It was impossible. There was someone in the house with him. And they’d locked him in his own basement.

Gritting his teeth, George slammed against the door with his shoulder. He grimaced as bone met solid oak and let out a yelp. The door was undamaged. His temper got the best of him and George kicked the door. It was an awkward act, given his limited range of motion, and George wound up booting the thing with most of his big toe. Excruciating pain caused him to lose his balance and he took a step back, whereupon he slipped on the bagged body and both he and Rosa rolled down the stairs.

George felt something grind sharply in his lower back, deep in the muscle and bone, and he shrieked. He landed in a twisted heap, with Rosa’s body sliding to rest atop his left leg. He tried to stand, but not only was his body exhausted, a stabbing jolt deep in his lumbar vertebrae brought tears to his eyes every time he attempted to move.

He sat propped up on his elbows, one of which was deeply bruised, staring up the endless staircase like a prisoner whose cell offers a view of the escape key, hung just out of reach. His spine protested the movement with a series of electric jolts which caused him to shout pathetically. He slumped down again, head flat against the floor, tears streaming from his eyes. The pain dulled, barely.

George
.

The voice was louder now, not so much a whisper, but still very soft. It drew Geor
ge’s attention to the impromptu body bag draped diagonally across his legs. Its inhabitant did not stir, but called his name once more, like a summoning lover hailing him from the bedroom. Oh, God, how he needed his bed. His back would feel so much better if only he could crawl to his bed. He could deal with the door—with the body—when he awoke later in the afternoon. He would find Rosa then too,
his
Rosa. Or, rather, he would find where he had mislaid her in his fervor.

George craned his head to the side, gave a longing look at the simple bed. Its frame was chipped and rusting in spots but the bare twin mattress sitting atop it looked infinitely more comfortable than hard, dirty concrete. From where he was situated, George could barely see the alarm clock on
the nightstand. It read 5:39 a.m.

The bed was only fifteen feet away. He could make it. And everything would be better when he had rested.

And then he caught a flicker of movement in the shadows beneath the bed. A pair of bright white eyes stared back at him from under the mattress, engulfed in a rich mass of brunette hair.

“Rosa? Why are you hiding?”

George was surprised to see her there, his statuesque masterpiece of loveliness. But he did not seem surprised by the fact that she was moving of her own free will. A smooth, white arm reached out from the darkness, followed by a face whose lower half was crusted with George’s dried blood.

George
.

Rosa crawled from the depths, articulated joints creaking as she clacked across the room with unnatural speed. Her stiff fingernails met George’s forearm, piercing the flesh clear through to the concrete.

George screamed as white hot pain stabbed through his body.

Rosa hovered over him for a moment, head cocked toward his nonsensical pleas, before her mouth split open to reveal jagged fiberglass teeth. An instant later, her face was buried in his throat.

George tried to scream but his words were lost in a fountain of retched blood. He stared up at her, choking, as the world quickly went black.

She was so beautiful.

Interlude: Into the Vortex

I think I might go into the vortex today.

I've always thought about it—I mean, wouldn't you think about it if you had a rip in the space/time continuum in your apartment?

But maybe I'm a little too spineless to go through with it. That's what my girlfriend says—that I'm spineless—but she's big and mean and built like a roly poly. I'd never say that to her face, though. It's not that I'm scared, it's just too much of a hassle to deal with the repercussions.

I don't have to deal with her tonight, though, because I lied and told her I had to work late. And so I eat my TV dinner and read yesterday's paper while the TV rattles on in the background.
Nothing but bad news these days. Nothing but kids being bad and people dying and the world moving too fast for everyone to keep up with.

I think long into the night about the vortex and fall asleep on the couch still thinking about it. In the background Al Bundy makes a smart aleck remark and my 19 inch TV that makes everyone look like they were baked in a bad tanning bed spits canned laughter. I’m recording it, so I'll watch it tomorrow.

And after that, maybe I'll go into the vortex.

*

Today my girlfriend came over after work.

We ate Chinese food, or maybe I should say
she
ate Chinese food. She needs to retain her figure, she says. Is round a figure? I would ask but...well, you know, repercussions.

Later she asks the dreaded question.

“Can we plllleeeeease make out?” she pleads, in a nasally, whining tone that could strip bark off a tree. I haven't kissed her in two weeks and soon I remember why. It's like having a walrus eat your face. I've never had my face eaten by a walrus, but I do imagine the overall feeling and sensations are strikingly similar.

Slurp
slurp smack squelch.

God, this might take a while.

As her colossal, clammy tongue threatens to collapse my air passage, I try to remember the name of the song I heard on the radio this morning. Catchy tune, really. I think it's that Chris Everson guy. Yeah, that's it. That kid's gonna be something one of these days if he can stay off the drugs.

I make my grocery list in my head, and decide I need a loaf of bread.
Maybe two. I should probably vacuum later, too. Did I leave the stove on? No, I didn't leave the stove on—I had a microwave TV dinner today. That was good Salisbury steak. A little salty, though.

I use my index finger and write my name in her fat rolls. I think she's past 300 now—no, actually I know she's past 300 now. I try to see if I can remember cursive lettering but she giggles like the Pillsbury Doughboy when I
dot my 'i'.

I sigh and she, mistaking it for enjoyment, makes a snarling sound like a wolverine in heat and proceeds to devour my chin. I'm not sure how she does it, but her mouth is actually over my chin.

I think I might go into the vortex today.

*

Today I worked two hours overtime, because when one person screws up in our department everyone has to suffer. I've learned that it doesn't pay to be good at your job. It pays to be mediocre. If you excel at your job, everyone expects so much more of you, but you get nothing in return. Nothing. So I figure sometimes it's best to just join the herd. It's always the sheep that strays off on his own that gets eaten by the wolf, isn't it?

When I leave work, I see I’ve just missed the sun, which has crept below the horizon, out of reach. I head to work in darkness and I leave in darkness. During the day I live in fluorescence. I'm not sure I remember what the sun looks like, except for the circle with tall spikes around it that I doodle on pieces of blue card stock, where choppy lines form the grass field for my ninja battles. The black stick figure ninja always beats the white-out stick figure ninja. It's not a racial thing; I just don't think ninjas dressed in white are very intimidating.

Look at me, thinking about racial discrimination among stick figure ninjas. Before I can ponder it any more, my girlfriend calls me on my cellphone. The screen is cracked, so I can't see the number, but I recognize her ring. It sounds like dread. So I don't pick up.

I should really think about going into the vortex today.

*

Last night I dreamt about it. The vortex, that is. All shiny and green and swirling. It invites you in, even if you can't bring that quivering big toe to make first contact. It's like looking into a pool on a just-slightly-too cold day and getting shivers in your body without actually stepping in. You can't just step into the vortex, I think. You have to dive.

I looked at it again today. That's probably why I've been dreaming about it lately. It's behind the bookcase, you know. I found it three months ago when I was cleaning. I also found seventy two cents and a stale
Cheeto, but I think that discovery is slightly less significant. It's green, it sparkles like a million diamonds, and it's all mine.

I have a lot to catch up on today, but I'll go into the vortex tomorrow. I promise myself I will.

*

Today at work was pretty uneventful. Well, except for the one thing. My boss came onto me—started trying to kiss me, touch my leg, even. I've never had so many raunchy things whispered into my ear. Something about stockings and g-string underpants and high-heeled shoes.

But I just don't see Mr.
Grimsley like that. So he fired me.

I'm going into the vortex today.

*

Today my girlfriend came over to eat. I guess I shouldn't have to specify that, because if she comes over, it's to eat. She asks if I want the rest of my fried chicken and before I can answer, I see a drumstick wedged between her lips. She looks like a pimple waiting to be popped, and in the blink of an eye the drumstick is gone. I'm not entirely sure if she chews her food anymore.

Long after she leaves I sit at the table with my face unshaven and my tie undone and my shirt
untucked, feeling a certain freedom I haven't felt in some time. I'd never imagine feeling free after being fired, but I am. I'm at peace. Or maybe it's the vortex, which is lighting my face much as a refrigerator lights the face of a sleepy stranger making a late night visit. The bookshelf is at an angle, pulled away from the wall, and the spiraling green vortex is brushing my uncombed hair from my forehead much the way my girlfriend once pushed my hair from my forehead, back in better days before she lost her job and gained a chin or three.

The plants that died months ago are stirring in the vortex's whisper, as is the parking ticket that flutters off the table. There's vibration in my pocket, filled with urgency, filled with dread.

I gather my breathing and take a step away from the vortex. Then two. Just breathe. Everything will be okay.

Its pull is as strong as ever with only the bare wall surrounding it.
Three steps. Then four. I'm now standing on the other side of the room, opposite the vortex, with my back pressed flat to the living room wall. Four steps away, eyes only seeing green.

As I said before, you can't just step into the vortex.

You have to dive.

The
Curious Debt of William T. Bellows

William’s heart tingled with glee as he watched his worst enemy being forced into the back of a police cruiser amid a storm of emergency lights. The night was moonless and the neighborhood dark, save for the intermittent sodium bulbs dotting the usually quiet lane. So the pulsing, silent rhythm of those red and blue police strobes cut through the still shadows like a giant suburban discotheque.

One that had just been raided by the cops, William thought happily. There were almost a dozen black and white cars in all. Nearly every officer on duty that evening must have been present, and William could hardly contain his excitement. Chris Rodriguez had just been marched out of his own home in the middle of the night. In handcuffs and with slumped shoulders, the defeated man made his already enormous home look even larger as he was ushered away from it.

When the cruiser door shut behind Rodriguez, symbolically sealing his fate, William felt an almost orgasmic sensation of gratification wash over him. He had awaited this moment for almost two full months: the public shaming of his unscrupulous and morally bankrupt former employer. And it was public indeed. The bedroom lights of Rodriguez’s fellow well-to-do neighbors began to wink to life one at a time along the street. Curious and judgmental faces filled windows, which warmed William’s heart.

The last two months of his life had been pure hell. No, scratch that. The last two years was more like it, ever since Rodriguez’s father Miguel had died. And right now the old man would have died all over again (of heartbreak) if he’d known how quickly his greedy, lecherous son had driven his company into the ground.

William had been the full-time accountant of Cityscape Signs for nineteen years, had in fact been one of the original hires once the company had grown too big to be housed in Miguel’s basement. He and Miguel had been good friends for nearly two decades, until Miguel’s ticker had quit on him. One day William’s boss had been a kindly old man with a slight stutter and a booming laugh, and the next…well, the very next day everything had changed.

Even before the old man was in the ground, Chris assumed the captain’s chair and had fired six of the company’s forty-two employees. And it was all downhill from there. The little snot had treated the company like his own personal debit card his entire life, but with the old man out of the way, Chris Rodriguez threw caution to the wind. He cared about nothing other than himself, and his vanity. The mansion, the summer house, the fancy cars,
the plastic surgery: all of it was siphoned out of the company well. It was clearly illegal, and destined to ruin the company. It placed an immense strain on William, as the man who kept the books.

William had urged Chris, had pleaded with him to stop, but to no avail. Cityscape Signs survived another fiscal year, miraculously avoiding a full-blown audit from the IRS. But it wouldn’t last. And it crushed William to watch as the company was halved down to a skeleton crew over the following year. Two whole production lines were shut down in the factory, at the cost of six major distributor accounts.

As Rodriguez’s most senior employee, William had taken the brunt of every one of the man’s poor business decisions, inadvertently at least. Because as the company accountant, his name was on every page of those “cooked” record books. Rodriguez had threatened his job at first, but eventually had threatened his safety when William’s discontent became too much for him. Chris was only a wannabe mobster, but it didn’t take much money to pay a guy off skid row to stab someone in the kidney. Those had been Rodriguez’s exact words.

And now it was over. The intimidation and the fear were done. The company would likely carry on, maybe even with William at the helm, and Chris Rodriguez would spend the rest of his days in prison, guilty of not just embezzling money, but also his surprise involvement in a child pornography crime ring. Everything had been wrapped up nice and neat, just like William’s new friend had promised. He could hardly believe it. The man had come through.

William let out a deep breath and straightened himself upright in his seat. His car was parked far enough down the block that the police had not noticed him, but not too far for William to see the most fulfilling details of the action. Right now things looked to be over. Officers stood around with hands loosely hooked in their belts, chatting with one another. A few men climbed back into their cars, carrying Rodriguez’s computers in tow as evidence. A handful of others surrounded the front door, asking Chris’s wife questions. Crimson and indigo danced across William’s face, passing over him as it did the surrounding trees, houses, and parked cars. He put his car in Drive, flicked on the lights, and made a U-turn out of Chris’s block.

“It’s finally over,” he mused in equal parts relief and disbelief.

“A beautiful disaster is never truly over,” said a gravelly voice from the backseat of William’s Volvo.

At this, the forty-eight year old accountant clutched one hand on the steering wheel. The other, he slapped over his heart. The beating organ failed to seize, but William still felt its unappreciative protest. A stiflingly frightful moment passed before William realized that he recognized the voice. It belonged to the dark man. It belonged to
the demon
.

William looked to the rearview mirror. A good part of him was fearful to do so, but he couldn’t fight the compulsion. He had to look. Again his heart lurched at the sight of the man. His features were lost to shadow, or at least that was what William thought until he looked again and saw that the man had no distinguishing features at all. It was as if William’s eyes were incapable of deciphering the face, leaving behind a scrambled, blank image that William’s brain could not recognize nor remember. There was only a smooth, empty face, perched above midnight black clothing. If William looked closely he would have seen that a more appropriate description would be to say that the man was not just hidden among the shadows, but rather
dressed
in them.

William did not bother turning around. The dark man appeared to him only in reflection. If he spun around in his seat to examine the rear compartment, he knew that against all logic, he would find the seat empty. It was, however, far from empty.

“How did you get in here?” William asked timidly. “Have you been here the whole time?”

“I come and go as I please, William. You know that.”

William gulped hard, took another deep breath.

When the man in his back seat did not respond, William mustered up a dab of courage and cleared his throat. “I… suppose I ought to thank you.”

“There is no need for that,” the demon said. “We had an accord.”

“I can’t believe it,” William said. “You actually did it. I mean—not to sound ungrateful—but I had my doubts. Any man would have.”

“Ah, yes. Doubt. One of man’s numerous despicable faults. It’s amazing your kind has managed to survive this long.”

“What about the company?” William said. ”There’s nothing to keep Rodriguez from blabbing about the illegally cooked books. Can’t he use that as some kind of bargaining chip?”

“You watch too much television,” the demon replied. “Not only would these fine state police be disinterested in the affairs of the Federal number crunchers, but the man has nothing to gain by outing those little indiscretions. But, just to put your mind at ease, I will have you know that I personally threatened to pull out his tongue and make him eat it if he ever considered playing the part of the rat.”

“You—you saw him personally? Jesus, did you say my name?”

The demon spat with distaste. “Please refrain from using such fucking vulgarity in my presence. You’ve got work to do. And if you don’t mind, I’d rather not begin on an upset stomach.”

“Work?”
William asked, wincing as he caught another glance of that empty, blurry face. Even without features, William could feel the demon’s anger. This was how the demon had presented himself before, in William’s midnight bathroom mirror: a shadow of a face radiating pure anger.

“Yes, William,” the demon said. “My end of the bargain has been fulfilled. You sought revenge and revenge I have supplied you with. Now it’s your turn to make good on our deal.”

“What deal?” William asked, hoping after he’d said it that it didn’t sound offensive.

The creature in the backseat emitted a snarl that made William’s hands sweat. He realized then that it truly was a beast, something wearing the hazy shell of a human but that was anything but. William dropped his eyes to the steering wheel and did his best not to cower.

“The deal we struck quite simply in your toilet room, William. I heard the call of your troubled mind through the vine of dreams, tasted the purity of your hatred and fear, and answered your plea for vengeance. My only price, as you certainly must recall, was the procurement of fresh light. You did hear me say that, did you not?”

William paused, crinkling his brow. Yes, he did recall hearing that peculiar phrase as he had stood there in shock, staring at his bathroom mirror after taking a midnight piss in the darkness. At the time he had thought the whole thing to be a sort of waking dream, an extension of his exhausted and weary mind. And then they had shaken hands, William extending his own right into the mirror to take the
demon’s. He had winced and looked down to find blood flowing from a cut on his palm. When he’d looked back, the demon was gone. But the cut remained. Further examination in the morning revealed a circular pattern that had been sliced into the skin. It was a sigil or sort of seal, the size of a quarter and inscribed with intricate lines and circles.

“Fresh light?”
William asked. A leaden weight took his stomach as he realized that the circumstance, his fortunate reprieve from his living hell, had not come free of cost.

“Yes, William T. Bellows. We had a gentleman’s accord. And while I have concocted a damnably clever solution to your problem, you must now do the same for mine. You owe me one fresh light.
One untainted
nefesh
. One pure essence.”

“A—a what?”

“A soul, you filthy manling. You, William T. Bellows, owe me one soul. And I, being a swift merchant, have come demanding my fee.”

“A soul?
You mean, you’ve come to kill me?”

William felt the last of his breath escape him and could not force himself to take another.

“No, William. What purpose would that serve? All my hard work down the drain? I think not. Besides, you are anything but pure. No, you shall be my vassal and my blade. You will deliver one succulently fresh soul to me or by all the legions of Hell I swear I shall burn your life to the ground.”

“But, you said you couldn’t kill me.”

“Look at your former employer,” the being said. “And then think of your wife. And your two pretty little girls snoring away safely in bed. The little one, Lynette, is dreaming of you right now, of the two of you at the circus. Think of Rodriguez and think of them, William. I cannot kill…but I have no need to, because what I can do to you is much, much worse than death. So I will tell you this only once. Do
not
renege.”

“This—I can’t—you want me to
kill
someone for you?” William’s head swam as he said the words. “Oh, God. Oh, fucking God. Who?”

“Blasphemy is becoming on your tongue, mortal. And you’re finally catching up. You don’t have to kill
anyone, you just have to start the ritual for me so that I may take them.
Whom
I take is entirely up to you, just so long as they’re pure.”

“You mean, like, decent?”

“No, I mean pure. I won’t say the word again. You know what it means. You’re just stalling.”

William swallowed. “Okay.
Fine. How long do I have?”

The demon snorted beneath his breath. “I’m not confined to the laws of time like you pathetic humans. But if you want a deadline, then fine. You have one week.”

“And…” William clenched the steering wheel, and nearly missed an approaching stop sign. He brought the car to a screeching halt; the figure in the mirror didn’t budge. “And I just do some ritual? H…How?”

A knife was placed into his hand. When William pulled it out of its leather sheath, he saw it to be nothing more than a thin blade with a worn stone handle.

“Twist this into their stomach, and then kiss them upon the cheek. I will do the rest. And do
not
get aggressive. I need them alive to perform my end of the ritual.”

William let the knife fall into the passenger seat. “And… and how will I know I’ve made the right decision?”

“When you meet someone truly pure,” the demon said, “you will know it. You will feel it. I won’t need to tell you anything.”

“And…” William winced. “And if I do this, my life will just go back to normal?”

He awaited a response, but when he glanced in the mirror, the demon was gone. Regardless, William already knew the answer to his question.

Even if he did keep his soul, his life would never be the same again.

*

“William?” Grace asked, for the second time. “Are you hearing this? Can you believe it?”

William glanced up from his bowl of cereal, blinking away his thoughts, and said mindlessly, “Yes, honey, I told you before that I knew what he was doing.”