Sunfall Manor Page 3

  Time glides by, but no one comes. He thinks about picking up the phone and dialing 911. But the authorities may not even respond in this ass-crack town without a voice on the other end of the line. Besides, Ralph deserves to find her like this. He needs to understand what he did to her.

  Or did I, by shining her on, do this?

  No. Wherever she is, it’s a better place than here. Unless… What if she’s here and I can’t see her? Is this place like that goddamn Eagles song?

  “You can checkout any time you like, but you can never leave.”

  Now he can’t get that infernal tune out of his head. And still no one’s coming to check on Carolyn. Time feels like hours past POPCORN.

  Edgar can understand Mike Collins’s inaction—the old man’s hard of hearing, crazier than a shithouse rat, and doesn’t have a phone. But the girl next door and Mac and Art have no excuse. Well, they have excuses aplenty, but none that come close to valid.

  Edgar can faintly hear Mac’s music upstairs. Mac doesn’t know Ralph is away or he’d be blasting Bob Marley or Pink Floyd or rap of some kind. Carolyn never has the nerve to bang on the ceiling or complain, but Ralph threatens Mac with violence as a matter of routine. Much as Edgar hates Ralph, violence against Mac is entirely justified. The guy just needs a beating.

  But Mac will have to wait. It’s time to visit the girl with many names.

  For Edgar, walking through walls feels like passing through a waterfall. A cleansing experience. But his hands are dirty now, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be clean again.

  – IV –

  The Girl with Many Names

  Above her futon is a colorful poster of New York City. Above her toilet, it’s Los Angeles. Through her large floor-to-ceiling windows, in a room that’s noticeably not of a piece with the house’s original construction, a moonlit cornfield sways. The girl’s space looks like it’s meant for plants, hooks all over the vaulted ceiling. But she had no plants—they would only wilt in her presence—and she never grows.

  She’s dark. Not just her makeup, always on even though she never leaves, at least not at night, which seems like it would be her time. Why she lives in a converted sunroom is beyond Edgar. She’s beyond Edgar. And far more ghostly.

  She’s in a fetal position in front of the television, watching a show that chronicles a group of struggling models. She likes—or at least watches—reality programs, particularly those that focus on models or actresses or rich socialites. Although the room isn’t cold, she’s swaddled in winter clothes and thick blankets. She shakes like a junkie, but she doesn’t do drugs, at least not the kind that one smokes or snorts or shoots up.

  Her drug is the world online. When she’s not in front of the television, usually in the small hours of morning, she, the only resident of Sunfall Manor with an Internet connection, is on a website called FriendSpace. She has twenty or more accounts, each with a different profile picture (none of them her) and a different name. Edgar’s not even sure what her real name is. The mail strewn across the kitchen table is addressed to many: Beth Johnson, Lyle Anderson, Kayla Sterling… On her nightstand, next to the futon, are three driver’s licenses from different states, none of them Nebraska, each reflecting a unique identity.

  Edgar first thought the girl was running from something, but she makes her face seen too much for that to be the case. Once a week, three gray-haired men come over. They bring cameras and groceries and money. She fucks them for hours, and they take turns capturing it all on video, available to monthly subscribers on a website called Old Dicks in Young Chicks.

  There are no shades or draperies in front of her windows. Anyone walking past can see her in action, but no one ever does. The men sometimes question her lack of discretion, but she just waves off the concern.

  She never talks to the men or on camera. In fact, Edgar’s never heard her speak. She just does her business, which she doesn’t appear to enjoy or detest, takes their money, and gives them a grocery list of things she needs next week.

  Maybe she can’t speak. But Edgar doesn’t buy that. He suspects that she chooses not to.

  The show ends and she turns off the TV. Edgar follows her to the computer, the FriendSpace page already up. She has more than a hundred new notifications from people all over the country.

  Get well soon. =)

  Sorry to hear about your daughter. My thoughts and prayers are with you.

  *Hugs* Keep your faith in God. It’ll get better.

  The messages go on and on like that. And she takes her time replying to each of them.

  Thank you so much. Knowing I have friends like you makes everything much better. xoxo – Beth.

  I never thought something like this could happen to one of my children. Cancer’s a terrible disease, but we’re blessed with the best doctors, and faith. All the best, Chuck.

  Pray for me. My faith is wavering. Does that make me a bad person? Confused in Concord, Mandy.

  She never asks her “friends” for money, never seems to take pleasure or pain from the interactions. Typing, fast and accurate, she looks like a machine. A machine working for hours toward no apparent goal. Art would enjoy a TV show about her.

  Clack-clack-clack…

  She pulls the afghan blanket from her shoulders; puts it over her head and the computer monitor, making a little tent to work in.

  Clack-clack-clack…

  Bored with watching her, unable to see her anyway, Edgar sits on the futon.

  Clack-clack-clack…

  She’s an exceedingly beautiful girl.

  Clack-clack-clack…

  A complete mystery.

  Clack-clack-clack…

  Not unlike a vampire.

  Clack-clack-clack…

  Draining people of their time and emotions rather than their blood.

  Clack-clack-clack…

  But to what end?

  She gets up, drops the afghan around her shoulders, and walks into the bathroom. Edgar, still thinking that tonight might be his last at Sunfall Manor—hoping it will—gets up from the futon and walks to the computer. He deletes the current message she’s working on, replaces it with: Why do you do this?

  His curiosity is too great to ignore any longer, and he hopes she won’t ignore the question.

  A piece of black electrical tape covers the lower corner of the screen. Edgar peels it away, and the screen informs him that it’s 2:26 p.m. on 3/21/1601. He puts the tape back in place and shakes his head, smiling despite how humorless the whole situation is.

  The girl returns and sits down. Looking at the message, she gasps, then glances around the apartment, tears welling in her eyes.

  Hands shaking, she clears Edgar’s question, then types: I’m trying to feel. Then she stares at the screen, obviously waiting for a response, her hands still shaking. She types: I’m afraid. Glances around again, then adds: Thank you.

  A scratching sound comes from one of the large windows, and Edgar and the girl both turn to see a pitiful-looking mutt, one of Art’s many Sheppys, flakes of pizza crust in his or her beard.

  Dogs scratch at the glass frequently, drawn by the light and a need for companionship. The girl normally ignores them, but now she’s reacting differently. She walks to the door, opens it, and waves the dog in. The mutt enters pensively, looking around her place, curiously sniffing the air. She crouches and says, “Did you send me that message?”

  So she can speak, though her voice is strange. Nasally. Strained.

  Wagging its tail, the dog barks.

  “I thought so,” she says. “You’re more than a dog, aren’t you?”

  The dog barks again.

  “Dog spelled backwards is God. That’s who you are.”

  The dog tilts its head in an inquisitive manner, then puts its paws on her chest, panting.

  She puts her arms around it, an ill-at-ease embrace, and says, “You shouldn’t have made me this way.” The dog licks her face as she runs her hand through the fur of its head and neck. She grabs its
head. The dog struggles. She twists hard.

  A dull snap. The dog lets out a horrific squeal, then falls to the floor, body twitching.

  She stands, looks down at her work, face emotionless. “You shouldn’t have made me this way,” she repeats. “You did this to yourself.” Then she picks up the twitching dog, throws it outside, slams the door.

  God is dead, in her mind, although she doesn’t appear bolstered by that knowledge.

  At the sink of her kitchenette, she washes her hands and face. Grabs a Coke from the refrigerator. Returns to her computer and lights a cigarette.

  Clack-clack-clack…

  Edgar, shocked and horrified, returns to the futon.

  Clack-clack-clack…

  And bides his time before he can leave this terrible girl’s domain.

  – V –

  Mac

  Edgar can’t float—another curveball that initially unbalanced his stance. So he enters the common hallway through the Simmons place (still no response to Carolyn’s demise), then moves up the stairs to his next stop.

  On his way to Mac’s, he tries to forget what happened in the crazy girl’s apartment. As horrifying as Carolyn’s suicide, the crazy girl tops it. Murder, he reasons, is always more gruesome than suicide. Even if this isn’t his last night here, he’ll never return to the place of the girl with many names. He’ll have to make the cellar his den of solitude, become a spirit world cliché. Of course, he’ll have to find a way down there first. The cellar door of the old farmhouse is located outside, so Edgar has never visited the world beneath Sunfall Manor. Sometimes strange noises come from below, piquing his curiosity, but most of those sounds rumble from the furnace. He doesn’t know if anyone goes down to the cellar anymore—certainly not repairmen—and wonders if there are more like him trapped down there. No rattling of chains or eerie moans, but he wonders just the same.

  He glides through Mac’s door.

  Mac’s real name is Bobby McDonald. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, Mac appears much older, gray creeping into the thin halo of hair around the freckled dome that protects his misfiring brain.

  It’s always 4:20 at Mac’s place, a thing which all the clocks are set to signify. The air is thick with the sweet stench of cannabis, the living room awash in black lights

  Mac is entertaining tonight. A skinny blonde, no more than fifteen, is curled up on the couch, snoring. A redhead, no older than the other girl, is nursing a pipe, smoke serpents rising from her lips, which are caked with sparkly lipstick and cold sores. Mac is ass-down in a red beanbag chair, staring up at the dingy ceiling tiles, a stupid grin cracking his face.

  Edgar doesn’t recognize the song that’s thumping from the stereo, assumes it’s something one of the girls provided. He hopes that’s all they’re providing tonight, though he knows better. He’s been here too many times not to realize the score. Nowhere else to sit, he cops a squat on the filthy hardwood floor, glad that he’s impervious to germs. Well, at least he assumes, having never coughed or sneezed, he is.

  The redhead pulls the pipe away from her face, coughs a few times, then turns to Mac. “You sure that wasn’t a gun we heard?”

  “Look outside,” Mac says with blissful indifference. “You see any police cherries out there?”

  “No, I just—”

  “Shiiiiit,” Mac interrupts, “This place is more country than Travis Tritt, Tina. Guns always be going off ‘round here. You think you’re in Omaha or Lincoln?”

  “I’m not Tina,” she says, then points at her sleeping friend. “That’s Tina.”

  Mac waves off the correction, slides a hand down his sweatpants, scratches his nuts. And Not-Tina goes back to her pipe. A few shallow tokes, then she says, “Maybe we should call ‘em.”

  Mac bolts upright, anger radiating from his narrowed eyes. Leaning over her, he shouts, “Call who, Tina?”

  “I don’t know,” she drones. And her presence here is all the proof needed to know these are the truest words she’ll likely ever speak.

  Mac slaps the pipe out of her hand, sending it across the room. Reflexively, reason numbed by bearing witness to such ignorance, Edgar catches the serpent-shaped object. Not-Tina’s eyes go wide as she stares at the floating pipe.

  “You call the pigs and I’ll cut you,” Mac threatens.

  Not-Tina just keeps staring, her eyes not leaving the pipe until Edgar, realizing his error, drops it. He’d almost been riding the numb zone. This is the place where that happens most frequently. He doesn’t think he’s capable of a contact high, but he isn’t so sure. The haze of this place alone is enough to put anyone or anything into a trance.

  “Did you see that?” Not-Tina asks, pointing in the direction of Edgar.

  Mac looks stupidly around the room, then turns his less-than-amused attention back on the girl. “See what?”

  She shakes her head. “You sure you didn’t lace that shit with nothing?”

  “Did you hear what I said?” Mac snarls.

  “W-what?”

  “I told you that if you call the cops—”

  “Who said anything ‘bout calling the cops?”

  Dropping back onto his ass, Mac seems content with her answer. He fishes a joint from his shirt pocket, lights it, takes a deep drag. “Don’t have to lace my grow,” he wheezes. “Shit’s the best in the whole damn state.”

  Not-Tina isn’t listening. She falls back in her chair and closes her eyes. Mac returns to studying the ceiling, grin in full glory. Fills his lungs a few more times with smoke, exhales slowly, then puts the joint out in a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. He shifts his focus between the sleeping girls, grunts derisively a few times, then pulls a wad of cash from his sweatpants—tens and twenties, as far as Edgar can tell—and starts counting. Mac always counts his money when he’s alone. Calls it his “cheese.” Mac and cheese. Lovely. He clearly takes pride in his enterprise, which, Edgar grimly considers, represents the only act of fruit-bearing ambition at Sunfall Manor.

  Edgar has nothing against what Mac does for a living. His opinion of Mac is another matter. Mac tucks the wad of cash back in his sweats and leans close to Not-Tina. “Hey, baby,” he whispers, “wanna have a little fun?”

  She stirs. “Huh-uh.” Then she puts her hands beneath her head and shifts position, looking like the only thing she’s up for is ten to twelve hours of sleep.

  Edgar stands, turning away from the matters at hand. He routinely turns his back on Mac’s transgressions. But now, listening to Mac undo the girl’s belt, thinking about Carolyn, cold and dead downstairs, and the poor dog outside, Edgar can’t contain the need for action. He’s already laid waste to his code. Why not do it again? He snatches a Zippo and a Burger King bag from the coffee table, sparks the lighter and sets the bag on fire. Then he waves the burning garbage in Mac’s face.

  “Jesus Christ,” Mac shouts, pulling his hand from the girl’s jeans and backing away. “What the fuck?”

  Not-Tina opens her eyes, sees what Mac sees, and what he’s done to her pants, then jumps from the chair. “Dude,” she says, buttoning her pants, “this place is haunted.” She rushes over to Tina, shakes her. “Hey, bitch,” she shouts. “Wake the fuck up!”

  Edgar drops the burnt bag, and Mac starts stomping on it, making sure it’s out. He says, “This place ain’t haunted, girl. Must have just been a breeze or something. This old place is drafty as fuck.”

  “Breezes don’t start shit on fire,” Not-Tina says. “Besides, that thing wasn’t carried on no breeze. This place is haunted. And you’re pretty damn creepy yourself.”

  Mac heaves a sigh as the real Tina rubs her eyes. “What’s happening?” she asks. “I was sleeping.”

  “We’re getting out of here,” Not-Tina says. “Your Uncle Bobby’s place is haunted.”

  “Thought I told you to call me Mac,” he says in the voice of a hurt child.

  “Sorry, Uncle Bobby,” Tina says, grabbing her things from the floor and rising on wobbly legs. Then she snaps open her purse, pulls a
few crumpled bills from it—twenties—and hands them over to him. “That should cover the smoke.”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” Mac says, grabbing the money.

  Flipping him the bird, the girls quickly exit. Mac adds the new bills to his cash. For a moment, he looks like he might count his loot again, but he doesn’t. He just shakes his head and slides the wad back into the crotch of his pants. “Didn’t want no pussy anyway,” he moans.

  Edgar feels no sense of righteousness as he watches Mac curl up on the couch and close his eyes. “Didn’t want no pussy,” Mac repeats, like a punished child going to bed without dessert or a few minutes of The Tonight Show.

  Edgar sits in the chair that had been occupied by Not-Tina, and Mac starts snoring. Struck by how much he’s been alone tonight, Edgar questions why he hasn’t put the time to better use. His internal clock tells him it’s not 4:20, nor is it POPCORN or flashing 12:00. He knows, more importantly, it’s not time to leave yet. So he walks to Mac’s meager bookshelf, grabs a tattered paperback of Ubik by Philip K. Dick—at least Mac pretends to read good books—and sits down again.

  Seventy pages in, sure he’s read this story before in some kind of life, he knows he can finally leave. Putting the book down, Edgar thinks about reading another fifty pages, but quickly scratches that idea. He has to move on to the attic, one last stop standing in his way.

  Before leaving, a metallic glint catches his eye. He looks at the sword mounted on Mac’s wall, then down at Mac, then back at the sword. How easy it would be to snatch the sword, cut Mac into little pieces.

  Mac and cheese, please!

  He searches himself for violence, hopeful he’ll find action worthy of his clear motive. But he comes up empty.

  “Some ghost I am,” Edgar mutters, then he trudges out of Mac’s room, crossing the hall to Mike’s place.

  – VI –

  Mike

  At least Mike tries to be something better than he is, standing above the kitchen table in his clown regalia, looking down at a cluster of poorly constructed marionettes while he scratches his head.