9.30.2013: 618

Jack’s keys jingled as he slipped inside through the back door that led into the kitchen. There was a cake on the table, decorated and frosted in chocolate icing that read “Happy Birthday, from all of us!” Jack smiled. He tossed his jacket over his shoulder and walked over, unlocking the silverware drawer and pulling a butter knife out. He sliced into the cake, its fluffy yellow interior beckoning. It melted on his tongue, rich, light and velvety with chocolate. Shuffling toward the stairs, he decided resolutely to do some work in his lab before bed, but as his foot hit the first step, a white-robed figure caught his eye.

Curled up on one of the large chairs in the downstairs hall, Dalia Hawthorne was sleeping. Jack started, surprised. Dalia had been at the facility almost two months and had showed little improvement under the influence of his prescribed treatments. He’d insisted she be put into solitary on the third floor. But that was almost four days ago. How had she gotten through security and all the way down both flights of stairs? It was impossible. But there she was, asleep in the first floor common hall, where most of the residents spent their free time during the day.

Cautiously, Jack set his cake on the banister and inched toward her.

“Dalia?” He whispered, his fingers flickering against the lamp switch.

Dalia Hawthorne was being treated for MPD, a problem that had developed as a result of a nearly fatal car accident. Her parents had brought her to Gaebler Park Mental Hospital three months after her accident, claiming that she’d developed multiple personality disorder and were convinced that she was under some sort of Jekyll-and-Hyde spell. When she was Dalia, she was a sweet, child-like woman who had the innocence of a pet puppy. At other times, she became violent and psychotic, referring to herself as Lorraine Dixby, a name that the Hawthornes had never heard of before. Regardless of her shift in personality, the young woman was terrified of everything and prone to chills, nightmares, and extreme anxiety. Jack was surprised to see her sleeping so peacefully. He put a hand on her shoulder, preparing for the worst, should she be in one of her Lorraine moods.

“Dalia?”

 Dalia didn’t answer. She appeared to be smiling in her sleep, a sight that improved her wonderfully. She hadn’t smiled or laughed or said a single coherent word since her arrival. He found her present state of peaceful bliss odd, and tried her other name.

“Lorraine?” He murmured, shaking her gently. Her eyes popped open widely, and he jumped in spite of himself. “That’s right. Wake up. You need to go back to your room. Do you understand me?”

She shook her head.

“Dalia, come on, I’m going to take you back to your room.” He took her hand.

“I was waiting for you,” She murmured clearly and precisely, with a shy smile, shocking him yet again. “I made a cake for your birthday.” Jack went pale at her first words, and even paler at her second, gagging. His mind spiraled downward into a sea of morbid worries about the contents of that cake. He’d assumed his coworkers had made it, not a mad-woman who had suddenly regained her powers of speech.

“That was very thoughtful of you, Dalia.” He said, forcing a weak smile. Her brow puckered in confusion.

“I’m not Dalia.”

“Lorraine, then. Come on. It’s time for you to go back to sleep.”

“Jack, don’t you remember me?” Her voice, soft and sweet, melted into him. Suddenly it did seem terribly familiar. He turned and looked down into her eyes. “Happy Birthday, my love.” She whispered. 

2.29.2013: 351

Jack drove through the crowded city streets, back out towards the country and all the way to the middle of nowhere. Everything felt somehow different. His birthday meal was a disaster, his relationships were crumbling, and all he wanted was to go home to a house in Nashville, Tennessee where a loving smile would be there to greet him, not this ghastly place on the outskirts of Chicago. He pulled into the drive and got out at the gate where the code was changed weekly. Fortunately it wasn’t snowing at the moment. Still, the cold chilled him and he was glad to slip back into the heated seat of his Mercedes as the looming black iron gates swung slowly aside. The whole night had been an exhaustion. He thought back ten years to his twenty second birthday. How different everything had been then.

He’d been a medical student at Vanderbilt, letting his studies slip and getting caught up in the life that he’d always wanted, rather than the life that others had planned for him. He’d considered dropping out of the medical field and going to study art or music or a thousand other things he’d always wanted to try. But helping others was his calling. Everybody said so. He could still see his old room, in that little campus apartment complex that he had shared with three other guys and a pet rabbit. He remembered it so clearly.

That night, ten years ago exactly, the apartment had been empty, except for the two of them.

“Happy Birthday, my love,” She’d said, like she meant it. And nothing else mattered besides the sound of her voice. He remembered the way everything else faded when she talked, all his worries would vanish and the world would somehow seem like a good, wholesome, beautiful place just waiting for someone to make it even better than it was. She’d believed that, that someone was him. And she’d made him believe the same.

It had been a different world, and a different life. And now it seemed like a different man looking in the mirror. 

9.29.2013: 636

“Happy Birthday, babe.” Tiffany murmured absently as she greeted Jack at the door. She kissed his cheek hurriedly, leaving a smear of brutal red behind. Jack stepped inside the apartment, shutting the winter snow out behind him.

“You ready to go?” He asked.

“In just one minute! What time are we supposed to meet them?” Tiffany clip-clopped around, wearing one shoe and carrying the other under an arm as she looped earrings through her ears.

“In about one minute.” He replied, watching as she dashed back and forth between her room and the small kitchen. “Can I do anything to help?”

“Oh you sweet man, no. Don’t you do a thing. It’s your birthday, remember?  I’ll be just one minute. Oh, you could put Sasha in her bed for me. And would you mind checking to make sure I got the stove off?” She slammed the bathroom door behind her. Jack smiled weakly and looked around. The beloved Sasha was crouching, panther-like, on the arm of Tiffany’s white leather sofa. Her thick, fluffy coat rose as he approached, and she hissed, having no liking for her mistress’ friend.

“Yeah, nice to see you too, Sasha.” Jack muttered with a sarcastic twist of his mouth. “Come on now, and hold still.” The cat made a swipe for his face, but missed. Jack grinned and shoved it in its cage. He turned to the pot of pasta that was boiling over on the stove and transferred it to the refrigerator.

“Alright, I’m all set. Hurry up, Jack, or Linda will get huffy and leave.” Tiffany clicked out of the bathroom wearing both shoes and dripping in flashy beads. She scowled, pulling at his arm.” They hurried out into the cold, November night. Tiffany talked unceasingly about her work at the firm, this client or that having thrown a tantrum about her bill, or the settlement, and endless other legal problems. Sometimes he thought that she got more fun out of complaining than she did out of her many successes. At the restaurant, Linda and Josh Melzo were already in a booth and sipping their water in stony silence. “Oh, what now, you two?” Tiffany joked. “Linda, if you ever get sense enough to leave him, I’ll represent you in court and I’ll give you a discount.” Jack flushed hotly, embarrassed by her crass behavior. He said nothing. Josh said nothing. Linda said nothing, and Tiffany talked endlessly on the same subjects that she had already exhausted on the drive there. Jack found himself wanting to doze off. His head swam with worries of his own, and the business of birthdays didn’t help much. He felt suddenly older, as if his life was slipping away before his eyes, leaving him watching helplessly from the sidelines. He felt that he wasn’t getting enough out of his life. Where was happiness, usefulness, honor, family? Love?

He looked at his girlfriend and sighed. How many birthdays had he known her for?

As if reading his thoughts, Josh suddenly spoke up, “Well, Jack, congratulations on another successful year of life. How old are you now? All set for retirement?” He jabbed his friend in the ribs and laughed, overly-cheerful. Linda glared.

“You’re not funny Josh. Stop trying to be. How old are you really, Jack?” She asked, twirling her marinara-coated noodles around a silver fork.

“Thirty-two. Or I will be, in a couple hours.” He replied softly.

“Thirty-two. Wow. And already a success by anyone’s standards.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Jack murmured, laughing.

“Well, some people are hard to please.” Josh muttered, pointedly looking at his wife. Linda burst into tears and pushed her way out of the booth. Tiffany sighed, and went after her with a now-look-what-you-did glance behind her.

Jack boxed up his bruschetta. Birthday number 32 was officially over. 

9.28.2013: 329

“Excuse me, do I know you?” A tall looking man with dark hair and a suspicious brow bent over Maggie. She jolted awake, realizing her mistake. Exhausted, she’d fallen asleep and the owner of her hideout had come home. She sat up, confusedly, brushing her hair out of her face.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Isn’t this the Burke’s house?” She murmured, blinking innocently.

“No.” The man replied stiffly.

“Oh, dear! Daphne Burke is a friend of mine from college. I was supposed to stay with her and her husband last night, but I must have gotten the wrong apartment number.” She jumped up and brushed off her wrinkled dress, slipping into her shoes.

“Weren’t you surprised when there was nobody here?” He looked her up and down, his frown fading.

“No. Daph said she’d leave the door unlocked. They were going to her mother’s and I didn’t know if I would get in last night or this afternoon, so she said to make myself at home. Isn’t this 414?”

“It’s 514. Don’t worry, you can stay for breakfast if you want,” He replied, visibly more relaxed. “Sorry if I seemed angry. Things just get crazy here around Marti Gras.” Maggie laughed.

“I can imagine! As if it isn’t enough having strangers drinking and rioting in your streets, now you’ve got a stranger camping out on your couch.” She twirled a strand of blonde hair around her finger. “I’m sure sorry I bothered you.”

“No, it’s no trouble. Sorry I was so uptight. I’m Jason, by the way.” He held out his hand. Maggie took it, smiling.

“Audrey.”

“Well, welcome to New Orleans, Audrey. Can I… get you some breakfast?” Jason said, suavely, with overdone charm. Maggie hid her amusement and replied,

“Oh, thanks but no thanks. I’ve been enough trouble already.” She pulled her hoodie up and looped her bag across her shoulders. She was tired of the game for today, and ready to move. “I’ll see myself out.”

9.28.2013: 316

Maggie ran breathlessly through the crowd, her hair clutching at her face. The neon lights flashed crazily all around, and the jostling of the masses jarred her. Hundreds of people filled the streets, craving the numbness and empty bliss that came with partying and dancing with strangers. She pushed through them, panting and choking. She bumped against a man, knocking a bottle from his hand. It shattered on the pavement and he called out after her, angry and threatening. Maggie didn’t stop. She couldn’t. She didn’t look back, but always forward, running, running, running.

The night grew darker as she made it out of the street mob and into the back allies of New Orleans. Rounding corner after corner, she started checking locks. There: open. She pushed into the dark apartment, sinking down into a stranger’s stiff couch. The lights from the party still flashed through the windows. In the shadow of the corner, Maggie caught her breath, pulling out a phone.

“Hello?” Came a cheery voice she hadn’t heard in years. A thousand miles away, she could picture the face as clearly as if it was in the next room.

“Mom?”

There was silence. “Mom, don’t hang up.”

“What do you want?” The voice came out cold and stiff this time. Maggie’s throat tightened.

“I’m just in a little trouble. I was wondering, could I come home?”

“Who’s paying for your ticket?”

“I’ll find the money.”

“You mean you’ll steal it. Don’t come home Margaret.”

“I was hoping to see Dad.” She murmured.

“Your father’s birthday was last week. I think he would rather you not interrupt his work, again.” Maggie could hear her mother’s lips pursing.

“Will you tell him I called?”

There was a heavy silence, marred only by the sound of Pasty Cline crooning in the background.

“Goodbye Margaret.” Her mother hung up. Maggie dropped the phone and ground her teeth together.

The Silence: 220

I stared at the sky. The first drops of a winter rain were falling lightly, through a world of wafting fog. The field was like something out of a storybook, clothed in a light white cloud, and empty, but for me. Its winding paths of grass curved and wound like a maze, and I breathed in the silence, the peace. It was beautiful. The only sounds were those of my feet as they melted into the grass, crisp with frost. In the distance the glow of the early morning street lights shone through the fog. A flash of red burst through the cloud, as a hummingbird’s brilliantly colored coat dove past me. His shrill voice called out and I answered him with a whistle. Then the sound faded and the stillness made me breathless. I felt as if I was completely alone in the whole vastness of the world. The quiet was heavy, settling down upon me, heavier than the thickest fog. I knelt down, uncaring of the dampness that sank through my jeans. Nothing like that mattered. All that mattered was being a part of that world, that quiet, that beauty. My hair tickled the back of my neck. I waited.

I waited for the sound that would never come. Then thunder rumbled. And the rain came crashing down. 

Memories: 115

The smell tickled my nose, pulling me out of morning dreams and into the world of reality. To most it was just another nicely scented candle, but to me it was a time machine. The dainty scent of apples mingling with cinnamon took me back---back to Christmas and falling in love, and a thousand memories with family and friends and words I would never say again. I breathed deeply, wishing I could go back. Going back is impossible, but we all wish it as some point or another. But for now I would be content just to bask in that glorious smell and recall all the ghosts of Christmas past, both beautiful and winsome. 

9.27.2013: 617

“Do you understand?” Mr. McPherson asked, dryly. His eyes seemed to look through me, straight home to whatever life he lived outside of school and being “Mr. McPherson,” under the heavy brand of “algebra teacher.” I guess he had a real life somewhere too, and I felt sorry for him. From the look on his face, his life was going no better than mine.

“I think so,” I replied, out of sympathy. Looking relieved, he moved on to the next student. I was glad not to be a burden to him, even if my answer was a lie. I had had no time for understanding that afternoon. All I could think of was the outstretched hand that was crawling slowly, slowly, slowly from the two to the three. What I wanted was to get out of that classroom and get home, where I could bury my head in the sand and be safe from all the predators that skulked through the hallways of that school. Every time I walked down one of the long halls, I felt like a cat on a fence, surrounded by pit bulls. If I fell, even once, it would be death. They were always there, waiting and hungry. But the fence was getting shorter every day. I was almost to the other side. With every turn of the clock, I was one day closer. Then I could fly away and escape the world of high school.

It was a world I felt I’d failed at, not in regard to homework or getting A’s. Grades weren’t exactly a cinch, but I could manage them if I tried. It was the rest of it, I’d failed. From the beginning, I’d tried to get too much out of high school, and come to the conclusion that it was not a place to be yourself, despite what all those Dear Abbys say, but in fact a place to keep your head down and your mouth shut. Being yourself doesn’t work well when you have no clue who the heck you are. Friends soon turned to enemies, or forgot you, or didn’t have the time. Parents expected more, always more, demanding perfection. Friends were unreliable.

Everything was unreliable, even myself.

With a long breath that was in between a sigh and a whispered whimper, I turned back to my quadratic equations and frowned. They were no help. I scrawled the lyrics to a song in the margin of my notebook, waiting. At last the time was up. Mr. McPherson forgot to assign homework in his rush to leave the room, and none of us reminded him. There were several exclamations of relief and then laughter as kids packed up and poured out the door. I pulled my hood up over my head and hurried out with them, into the rain. Cold droplets battered my face and the wind snatched at my hair. Half blinded, I was too tired to pull it out of my eyesight. The parking lot was crowded with the sounds of school: shouts, laughter, and honking, as horn-happy minivan moms pulled up to the curb. I shuffled my way through the people, trying to remember where I parked. There was a van in front of me, but not a minivan, a long van. I sighed as I waited for it to move. When it didn’t I started around the other side.

My lips felt like they were being torn off my face as a firm, gloved hand wrapped around me from behind. And everything I knew about high school suddenly changed. From then on, it filled my memory as a paradise of missed opportunity, which had been snatched away from me all too soon. 

Poem: 124

It was a starlight night in a world faraway

Faraway from everything I knew

There was me and there was you

I never laughed so hard in all my life

And there was nothing there but the darkness and the light

The fire and the shouts and smiles

And collective moonlight hearts

All of us beneath the stars

The songs the whispers all at once, waiting, watching, saying goodbye

Happiness and loneliness

Confusion and joy

Your hand brushed mine and I almost didn’t pull away

Unsure, afraid, free and happy

Beneath the stars

As they shot across the sky

I felt the beating wings inside, felt my heart wondering

Who are you?

Who is me?

Whoever will I choose to be?

Beneath the stars

9.26.2013: 632

“Where are you?” Came the nervous call. Makayla’s voice sounded oddly hollow and lonely against the quiet emptiness of the big house on Everett Drive. “Hello?” She called out again, flipping the light switch hastily up and down. The room remained dark, and not a single streetlight glowed outside. The only flicker of light came from across the living room, through big bay windows and out across the river where Portland’s busy streets glowed safe and bright in spite of the storm. Makayla shivered. “Mom?” She murmured, more softly, this time. Her mother’s car was kept in the garage. She felt her way across slippery wooden floors to the door of the garage, opened it and tossed one of her shoes out to where the car should have been. The shoe landed with a gentle thud against concrete. Makayla, with all the sudden terror of any person who suddenly finds herself completely alone in a large, dark house, whipped out her cell phone, trying to coax battery life from its dying form. “Come on!” she whispered fiercely as she pressed her thumb into its glass face. But the iphone only crooned its death song and darkened once more. Feeling irrational panic rising, Makayla shoved the useless phone back into her back pocket and started for the kitchen where she managed to find and light a candle. Breathing easier, she set the warm, glowing light on the countertop, the scent of vanilla sweetly singing through her nose. Thunder rumbled through the river valley, deep and unfamiliar. The wind beat against the house and the rustling of the trees crackled with every new gust. Makayla caught sight  of a slip of paper on the refrigerator.

Went to visit Aunty Mary. Tim is getting worse. Pray. Will be home late.

Fantastic. Makayla thought sarcastically. She uttered a quick, duty prayer for her uncle, who was in the hospital, and returned to worrying about her own situation. Who knew when her mother would be home, and Makayla knew that nothing but the very direst of exhaustion would cause her to sleep through a night like that. The candlelight flickered eerily against the walls of the bare, white house. It was new. The Grants had only lived there for a few weeks, and Mr. Grant remained home in Michigan, trying to sell the old house. The previous owners had left in a hurry, leaving after living there only three months. They said they were anxious to get to a better climate than gloomy Washington. Makayla was used to rain, so she didn’t mind it much. But this storm was another matter. Rain was one thing, pitch black darkness was another. She groped for a blanket and snatched it up, settling down into the squashy suede sofa, one of the few unpacked items in the house. She wished she knew which box the cocoa mix was in, but digging around for it would require her to get up amongst the shadows once more. The wind wheezed. The rain pounced angrily against the windows. Makayla slouched deeper into the comforting pillows of the sofa, her breathing growing rougher.

 Then, a crash directly above her head shattered through the empty house. Frozen, Makayla was too terrified even to cry out.

A thought had been trying to slip its way into her mind again and again as she had heard the noises. So far the thought had not wormed its way in, for every noise had been accounted for. This one was not.

It made no sense. It had no explanation. The house was empty. There was nothing glass upstairs to break. Nothing at all.

Makayla fought against the thought with every ounce of mental strength, but finally she could not resist thinking it any longer.

Could the house be haunted?