After Death (15 page)

They were almost to the front doors. Frank frowned, shook his head.

“Nah. Not really.”

Fernando sighed, gave him a wan smile.

“See? Told you.”

When Frank got home, Argus immediately greeted him at the door with enthusiastic joy and affection, covering him in licks and wagging so hard he almost knocked himself over.

It was wonderful to get such a greeting — and Frank felt guilty about not being the best pet owner lately — it wasn’t often that he spent so much time out of the house — so he took Argus for a long leisurely walk around the neighborhood in an effort to make up for it. He also hoped to clear his head and settle his thoughts so he could return to the computer and type in some quick notes before Jackie got home from work.

The walk was uneventful and calming and by the time he got back, he was raring to go. He sat down at the keyboard and let his thoughts free-flow, fingers typing fast and light in an easy rhythmic pattern, completely brain-dumping the basics of his idea without regard to spelling, syntax, or grammar. Argus now contentedly lay at his feet as Frank re-read what he’d written so far on the computer screen:

“STORY NOTES

Main character extracts promise from nice dying man only to find out after death that man was not so nice. Dead man was deceptive and actually a murderer and psycho.
Maybe…
His source for this accusation is a loon. Everything that he says needs to be discounted. Main character must first prove that these horrible accusations are true. What does he do? Follow the leads, of course. He tries to confirm or deny his suspicions by revisiting the hospital, interviewing other patients that knew him. The other patients have nothing but horrible things to say about him but does that really mean anything? Main character returns to the hospital in search of more substantial evidence. He finds a box with old rings and jewelry, almost all small and child-sized.”

Frank stopped writing at this and pulled the assorted jewelry he’d found in Eli’s room out of his pocket and dumped it on the desk. Again he examined each piece looking for clues — with the same results. They were indeed all unmarked except for the one inscription on the high school ring: Paula L. Danner, class of ’53.

Frank smiled — this was clearly a case of art imitating life. He could write everything that had happened so far — absolutely everything — and it worked perfectly for his novel. He could use every detail he’d experienced at the convalescent home, all the characteristics of the staff, the way the place looked and smelled, the interesting and strange patients from screaming Larry to Rachel and Lidia, and of course, Eli. Hell, Fernando could even be in there as well. Then, of course, there was Burt and his connection to Eli as his step-son and the horrors that he’d said he’d witnessed. The lead in his book could do exactly as he had done — so all he had to do was keep going — and write about every step in the process. Sure he would have to get creative when he was further along and the story became more horrific and supernatural. But think about how real the setup would be? And how much better and more believable when things really started getting creepy?

He couldn’t stop grinning. It was a new idea for him. The fact that he didn’t know how the story would end was a total departure from how he’d ever written anything before. The concept seemed diametrically opposed to his compulsive and meticulous nature—and yet here he was — Exhilarated! There were so many advantages — why hadn’t he seen them before? The book would read fresh and unpredictable because there was no outline — no forced staging — No pre-plotted elements — and no projecting himself into a fantasy world either — Just real step-by-step actions —
His
.

He relaxed in the chair and pondered his next steps as the main character. The more he thought about the information he’d gathered about Eli so far, the more he felt skeptical. He had nothing real to go on — just conjecture and hearsay. One or two contradictions and the wild ramblings of a kooky relative didn’t prove anything… Sure, Burt had been convincing — but from what Frank had read, a lot of crazy people were
incredibly
convincing. Why should he take this obviously unsound person’s stories seriously? Especially since so much of what had made him really convincing to Frank was due to his own particular problem — his own overactive imagination and his susceptibility to suggestion.

He scratched the ever more frequent itch on his stomach and shook his head to himself. How could he be so gullible? Under the cold hard glare of logic, he bet there was nothing to the stories about old Eli at all. Burt was a nut ball if he’d ever met one! And so what if Eli liked to form connections with people by telling them he did the same job as a relative of theirs? That was all Frank had really confirmed and that was totally harmless. As to Rachel — maybe she’d made a pass at old Eli and he’d rejected her? Excepting minor and inconsequential information — all of the “witnesses” against Eli were either old, wackos, or both. Why spend three seconds thinking about what they had or hadn’t said —

He typed these thoughts into the computer and ended with:

Main character does not believe unconfirmed statements about old Eli. There is simply no real proof of wrong-doing.

He stared at the words and suddenly felt annoyed.
What was he doing? If he were going to write this book free-form, why was he typing in notes? Wouldn’t that defeat the whole purpose?

With another shake of his head he realized what was happening —
again
. It was another sneaky form of procrastination — something he was already a master of. On a subconscious level, he was dodging what really needed to be done — He needed to get back to The Novel and
stop wasting time!

With reaffirmed resolve he opened a new page in his word processing program and typed in the title of the novel, one that he’d had bouncing around in his head for weeks:

AFTER DEATH

He sat back and looked at the capitalized words on the screen. It was a good title — Simple, conveying the genre and basic idea of the story and most importantly — it was a bit creepy.

He was finally ready to begin his story — he was done with procrastinating — he would do what he’d set out to do and prove to his wife that her patience had been well invested. He scratched at his stomach again — it was getting intolerable —
What was that?
He tried to ignore it — Was he coming up with another stall tactic? But the pain was there — it was real enough. He looked down and saw the wet brownish stain that had seeped through his shirt and across a large section of his midriff.
What the…?!?
He raced for the bathroom, flipped on all the lights, and peeled off his sticky shirt.

In the harsh glare, an area mid-abdomen about two inches long oozed with puss, the edges raised in lips that formed a nasty redish-pink snarl. It looked as though something blunt had made an incision and the area hadn’t healed and was now swollen and infected. With a chill he also noted that it was in
exactly the same spot that Eli had poked at just before he died
.

Frank touched it and bit his tongue as the pain shot through him. A long stinging moment and it finally receded. He hurriedly thumped through the bathroom drawers for something to put on it to reduce the swelling or curb the infection or…
This was hopeless,
he realized.
Jackie would know. She was the organizer — he had no idea where anything was.

He raced to the living room, scooped up the cordless phone, and dialed his wife at work. He hated to do it — he’d have to go through the various receptionists and call-screeners, several of whom asked the same question — Whether it was business or personal — until he would finally reach someone who would put his wife on the phone.

When he finally got her on the line, she was true to form, as always. Within seconds of telling her what he was looking for, she’d directed him to the lowest bathroom cabinet under the sink for the rubbing alcohol — the only problem had been to avoid telling her what he needed it for. He ended up telling her a half-truth — that he was trying to disinfect a scratch he had on his stomach so that it wouldn’t get infected.
A white lie? Sure. But she had enough on her plate — he certainly didn’t want to worry her about some strange infection on his belly.

He thanked her and told her that he missed her and that he’d see her at the usual time when she got home, around seven-ish, and quickly got off the phone before she had time to ask questions.

He opened the clear plastic bottle and held the opening against a hand towel and smiled to himself as the towel became saturated —
She always knew where everything was — always!
How did she do that?

He pressed the towel against the wound and the smile was short-lived. For a second there was nothing — and then came a shooting pain that grew until it ripped through every nerve in his body. He tried not to cry out and danced around the bathroom, pounding his fists on the countertop, mind screaming —
When will it end!

He was almost blind with pain and smacked his fist harder than he should have against the wall when he heard what sounded like a soft bell ring. The sound was so odd — somehow so pure and high-pitched — that it made him stop and momentarily forget all about his state of agony.

There, in the middle of the bathroom floor, was the ring he’d examined in the other room, just spinning and shining — the sound of its impact fading away until it finally wobbled one last time and lay still.

Had he stuffed it in his pocket in his rush to the bathroom and not remembered doing it? It was the only explanation — He’d been on auto-pilot, the surprise of seeing his wound had obliterated everything else in his mind and he must have grabbed it on the way… and when he’d jumped around in pain, it must have been thrown loose…

Frank stared at it from where he stood, something unnerving about the way the light gleamed against it and that, even from this distance, he could still clearly see the etching on the underside of the band — somehow seeming almost magnified — the smooth arcing curve of the capital letter “P”.

***

That evening, when Jackie came home, Frank felt a little off. It’d been a long and tiring day and he just didn’t feel himself. Maybe his infection had helped tire him out… Over a quiet dinner he tried to be upbeat and asked all the standard questions about her day and the new account and what they expected of her — but it all felt flat. He knew what it was — besides being exhausted, he felt
restricted
. Not by her — by himself.

There were too many things he didn’t want to bring up. He didn’t want her to know about the stomach wound. He didn’t want to talk to her about Burt because that would lead to his own “immersion technique” as well as to his wild goose chase that lead him back to the hospital and to the investigation of Eli’s room and finding the ring and —

What would be the point?

Instead, he tried to keep it light. He would’ve talked to her about current events but he hadn’t looked at a paper or even browsed the internet in weeks. He did tell her about finally starting the book but that lead to more questions and he eventually told her he didn’t feel well and was going to bed early so that he wouldn’t have to exaggerate his progress any more than he already had.

His sleep was restless and he moved to the far side of the bed for fear of moving too much and waking her. He dreamt he was walking through a school in the middle of wooded greenery, much as in Burt’s story. He walked to a sandbox filled with children playing on swings and monkey bars. They were of mixed ages, from as young as five to as old as eighteen and their clothing ranged from that of the 1950s to that of the present. The air was filled with their high peels of laughter but it sounded more and more hollow and empty as he got closer to them and by the time he could clearly see their faces, he could see there was no joy in their eyes...

They stopped their playing and circled him, starting a new game of handing something from hand to hand, laughing louder and doing this quickly so that he had to spin to try and keep track of who was holding the hidden object and who it was passed to next…

He began to get dizzy and annoyed and finally yelled “ENOUGH!” — and his voice boomed so loudly that he half expected the sandbox to crack and the sand to seep away beneath their feet.

The children froze instantly, laughter gone, sheer terror now on their faces. A small girl in 1960s clothing stepped towards him with her arm held out, hand tightly shut. She opened her fingers… and inside on her palm was the ring, the same ring he had found in Eli’s box. The light gleamed off the inside of the band and there was that curving arc, a searing flash off the letter “P” that left him blind and dizzy...

He awoke bathed in a cold sweat with a sense of anxiety and something else… a feeling he couldn’t quite put his finger on but one that caused his hands to twitch spasmodically for a moment until his head could clear.

Only one thought now remained and it seemed highlighted with a sense of urgency — The ring — There was a reason it kept haunting him and he needed to find out what he could about it or he would have no peace…

The County Records building was crowded and Frank waited in line behind several people, most in snappy business attire and carrying briefcases. He guessed them to be lawyers or law clerks. Progress was slow and when he finally reached the front, making sure to keep his feet behind the yellow line on the floor, it seemed that those at the desk in front of him would never finish. A county clerk in his early twenties, hair tied back in a ponytail, finally waved him forward.