Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (9 page)

When he gets back home, he opens the purse and sets the bottles of alcohol on the counter. He pulls out a glass to pour in some whiskey but decides against it.
Not yet.
He heads over to Ben’s house to get the shovel.

VI

He stands above the grave, a pile of dirt at his side. His pilot uniform is stained with soil and sweat. The August heat is sweltering. He looks down into the grave, sees her lying there. He had dressed her in her favorite dress—the blue LA FEMME ball gown she had worn to the theater what seemed Anthony Barnhart

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eons ago. He slid the engagement ring over her finger—”I’m sorry, Baby. I love you. I’m sorry. I should have done it sooner… We should have gotten married. I’m sorry.” He then wrapped her in the comforter and tenderly lowered her into the grave. Now she is wrapped up tight.
Like a mummy
, he thinks gravely, remembering the mummies of Pharaoh on exhibit at the Cincinnati Children’s Museum.

The sun sinks lower and lower. The day is almost over.

I’m sorry
.

He walks around to the other side of the grave, picks up the shovel. It is heavy in his hands. He returns to the pile of dirt and begins scooping it inside. Tears crawl down his cheeks. At first they are a slow trickle, but they become quicker and quicker, until it is an avalanche sweeping down from his eyes. He finishes covering up the hole—he had meant for it to be six feet deep, but after four feet, he had hit bedrock, and could not dig anymore—and then sits down on the dirty earth. He lies down on his back, curls onto his side, and cries. The choking sobs burn his lungs. His face throbs as the swollen cuts pulse with pain at every explosion of muffled cries. She is gone.

He has buried her.

She has gone.

He stands on the balcony jutting out from the bedroom upstairs. The first stars are appearing in the sky. The sun sinks behind him, casting its last ribbons of light across the God-forsaken city. The cigarette cherry burns bright as night settles. The moon shines through scattered clouds. He sets the cigarette on the railing and goes inside. It nearly burns to the filter before a burst of wind sends it fluttering into the bushes along the side of the house.

THE HANGMAN’S KNOT. He had learned it in Boy Scouts ages ago. It is the only knot he remembers. The instructor had told them very flatly and severely, “Never play Hangman. It can really kill.” The essence of the knot’s danger cemented it in their minds. They always spoke of it, but no one dared practice it. They were told that while it had been used in the old days for hanging people from the gallows, strangling the victims, it was also used as a knot to tie angles to fish lines. He found the rope in the garage, among hammers and spilt nails. Now he sits in the kitchen, stringing the knot. He works methodically, finding a strange reverie with the act. He passes a 15cm loop of line through the eye he has made in the rope; he brings the end back on itself, passing it under the doubled part. He then makes five loops over the doubled part, and the knot is worked into shape. And then he hears the rope instructor’s voice:
the knot is now sent down the line against the eye of the hook
or swivel on the fishing line… There you go, Boys… Good job. And remember, this is not to be used on people.
It can kill you. Got it? Good.
A whimsical smile crosses his face. The only thing this knot is going to wrap around is his own damned neck.

He ties the knot over the fan in the bedroom. He then pushes the bed against the dresser and brings the high-backed chair to rest underneath the fan. He gingerly steps upon the chair, feels it warble beneath him—
Good, good…
—and then he brings the noose around his neck, tightening it.
Good
. He can’t look down, so he feels around with his feet for the back of the chair.
Just kick it over
. His mother told him, “Only cowards kill themselves.” Does he think he is a coward? No. The coward is the one who sees suicide as the only option and yet fails to undertake it because he or she is frightened of what lies beyond. He knows he has no other choice. And he knows what lies beyond:
Kira
. He will join her. He takes a deep breath—
Oh, the irony
, he thinks—and kicks the back of the chair. Anthony Barnhart

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The chair topples to the ground.

His body snaps against the knot, which immediately tightens.

He tries not to fight against it. Gravity pulls him down. The noose tightens even more. He tries to gasp for breath, but cannot: the rope has tightened around his trachea. He knows that he will be unconscious in a few moments—10 seconds, he had told himself as he searched for the rope—but time seems to have turned into nothing but a memory. All he knows is the pain: the unbearable, excruciating—

His body spasms uncontrollably.

The fan rocks back and forth.

And with a
SNAP!
it is ripped from its moorings on the ceiling. The trickle of time becomes a torrent, and the next thing he knows, he is lying on the floor beside the chair, his eyes bulging from their sockets, coughing in lungfulls of sweet, precious air. The fan lies on top of him, and chunks of drywall drop around him like sprinkles. Drywall-dust flowers to the ground like a mushroom cloud. He claws at the carpet. His head rockets with pain as oxygen returns through his system. Then he lies there, breathing heavily, drywall chalk itching his scalding lungs, feeling the weight of the dismembered fan upon him. His knees are bruised from the fall, and his wrist hurts.

He will find a gun in the morning.

He can’t mess up with a gun.

But now he sits in the living room, holding the bottle of Calvados brandy from Normandy in his hand. He doesn’t smoke. His lungs can’t handle it. They still hurt. And his
head
! His
fucking head!

He’d never had a hangover that felt so bad. Cutting off oxygen to the brain hasn’t helped any. He drinks and drinks until he passes out, not caring about the gut-wrenching hangover he’ll have tomorrow.

The gunshot through the roof of his mouth will take care of that. Anthony Barnhart

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Chapter Three

Fallen Angels

“At first cock-crow the ghosts must go

Back to their quiet graves below.”

- Theodosia Garrison (late 1800s)

I

“Please… Please, no… Please…”

She stands against the bedroom wall, tears carving lines down blotched cheeks. She squeezes her fists tight, dainty fingers quivering. Her beautiful eyes cut into his. He stands before her, the cutting knife from the kitchen in his hand, the blade pointed toward the ceiling. She pleads with him to stop, to be rational, she pleads with him to stop for the sake of their future, for the sake of their love, for the sake of their future children. Her tears match his, and the two of them weep. But his resolution is certain, etched in stone, unwavering.

She can barely manage the words between choking sobs. “Please… No… Don’t do this…

Please…”

“I’m sorry.” He stumbles over his own tongue. He can’t form his words. Fear is written over their faces as they look into one another’s eyes.

“No… You can’t…”

Resolutely, “I have no choice.”

“You don’t have to do this…”

“No. No, there is no other way…”

“Please…”

Her pleas become screams: he launches at her, thrusts his body against hers. She is pressed against the wall, the back of her head banging against a framed portrait of the two of them, all smiles, wrapped warm in love and tenderness. He jerks the blade upwards, into her chest. Her eyes go wide as saucers. He pulls it from her abdomen. Warm blood flows over his hands. Weakly she protests, but he can’t look at her as the blade sings once more. Blood trails from between her lips. He thrusts again. And again. And again. Her body goes limp. He steps away as she crumples to the floor. Blood stains her blue LA FEMME gown and spreads onto the carpet of the bedroom. Her mouth moves in stoic cries, and her eyes slowly fade into lifelessness.

He stumbles backwards, falls onto the bed.

The bloody knife tumbles from his frigid, blood-drenched fingers.

“I’m sorry…” he weeps. “I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry…”

He jerks awake. A cold sweat trails down his face. His heart shudders in an off-beat rhythm. Slowly his surroundings come to him. He is in the den, lying on the hardwood floor. The Salem Five-Shelf Cheshire-black bookcase is overturned and pressed against the window, meager light filtering in from the top of the windowpane where the bookcase doesn’t cover it. He closes his eyes and takes several deep gulps of air. The hangover is splitting, but he barely notices it. The dream continues to flash before his eyes. It felt so
real
. He props himself up on his elbows and looks around the room. Anthony Barnhart

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The roll-top desk sits quiet and closed against the far wall. The coffee table is overturned, the lamp lying on the floor, shattered, the cord twisted among the ceramic fragments. Framed awards and certificates line the walls; one has fallen and lies on the ground, the glass pane cracked. He can’t remember how he got to the den, but he doesn’t care. He pulls himself up and goes to the door to the parlor. He tries it. Locked from the inside. He undoes the latch and swings it open. He steps out into the parlor. The front door rests on its hinges. A pool of water is crawling inside from the front porch. The street outside is wrapped in a misty haze, prolonged by a cool drizzle. He goes into the kitchen and notices the sliding glass door is shattered, glass fragments lying over the linoleum. Rainwater has come inside. Sunlight from the early dawn enters the kitchen and glints off the thousand glass fragments.

His shoes crunch on the broken glass as he goes out onto the back patio. None of it makes any sense. He doesn’t try to figure it out. His head hurts too much. The city of Cincinnati is cloaked in the ephemeral mist; the highways and roads and low buildings are hidden, the tops of the skyscrapers rising like sentinels from the mist. The wind blows cold rain into his face and he steps farther back under the overhang. He fumbles for a cigarette in the pocket of his work pants. He lights it and takes a hit. The smoke in his lungs feels wonderful, but the smell of the cigarette makes his temples pound. Catch-22. He curses the cigarette and his god-awful addiction and tosses the cigarette into the yard. It fizzles in the stagnant pools of muddled rainwater. He turns and goes back inside, not even noticing the dug-up earth around Kira’s grave.

It hits him without warning, a sledgehammer driven into the darkest corners of his mind. A vision, a memory, something unexplainable: he sees himself locking the door to the den, panicked, brandy staining his clothes. The vision passes as quickly as it had come, and he glances down at his shirt. It is stained, and he reeks of fermented alcohol. His breath catches itself, and his heartbeat flutters. He bites his lip and glances into the living room. Hadn’t he fallen asleep on the sofa? Yes, he had, but how—Another vision: he is overturning the bookcase and sliding it against the window, feet slipping over flight manuals, commercial airline training textbooks, and assorted leather-bound collections of classic literature which he had adored during his days at Bowling Green. The vision fades, but before he can recollect himself, he is driven to his knees by another vision; yet this is not a vision of the eyes but a vision of the ears, an echo that makes him slide into the dark abyss of unconsciousness: a thousand screams of a million broken bodies.

He finds himself in the bedroom, staring at Kira’s broken and bloodied body. And he looks down at his hands, and he sees—Oh God!—they are covered in blood, steaming blood that cries out to him,
murderer, murderer, murderer, murderer, MURDERER!!!

His eyes open.

The dream fades.

He is lying on the linoleum in the kitchen, beside the counter. Shards of glass entangle his pants. His mouth is dry and tasteless, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He grabs the counter and pulls himself up. The movement sends shards of electric pain reverberating through his brain. He stumbles over to the sink and twists the handle. Water flows out, but it dies to a trickle and then stops before he can cup some in his hand and take a drink. He curses and goes to the refrigerator, opening it wide. The box of Diet Pepsi is empty. Kira must have drank the last can. The water bottles are all empty.
Fuck
. He grabs a milk, but it is warm and clumpy. He tosses it into the sink and takes the Anthony Barnhart

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quart of orange juice, mostly gone, and though it is warm, it is refreshing. As he puts it back, he notices something that sends shivers of fright rocking through him.
There is dried blood on his hands.

“Oh my God…” he mutters, startled at his own voice.

You killed her.

No! She was dead. I buried her.

You killed her. The bitch’s blood is all over your hands.

I didn’t kill her. The blood… It’s from yesterday.

You know you killed her.

It was only a dream!

You THINK it was a dream.

No. He knows it was a dream.

He looks at the carton of emptied orange juice. He’s still thirsty. The only drinks he has are alcohol, and he doesn’t want alcohol. Not right now. He wants water.
Maybe Ben has some water
. He leaves the kitchen and goes to the front door.
How in the hell did it fall from the hinges
? He examines it. The hinges are shredded.
It’s as if it were kicked in
. He tells himself he is going crazy. Who can blame him? He pushes Kira out of his mind—along with that god-awful dream, though it clings to him like a phantom, refusing to budge.

II

The mist is beginning to let up as he exits his house. The purple Escort sits quietly in the driveway. He can see Kira’s plush Bearcat mascot from her days at the University of Cincinnati lying lopsided on the dashboard, blank marble eyes staring at him. Mocking him. He looks away and walks down the driveway, into the street, raindrops peppering his hair. The smell of gasoline is in the air. A muffled explosion comes from the distance. He runs around to the side of the house, and through the limbs of the oak tree with orange and yellow and red leaves dripping rainwater, he can see a plume of acrid black smoke rising from the tall buildings of the U.C. campus.
That’ll be on the news
, he thinks for a moment; he catches himself at the irony.
Not anymore
. He turns and heads the opposite direction, towards Ben’s house. The dog is nowhere to be found.
Probably roaming the streets
. He looks to where Ben’s body had been the day before and sees that it is gone.
Looks like the dog got what he was looking for
. He walks up to Ben’s front door. It is shut. He twists the doorknob and it opens. He steps inside. The entryway is flanked with a staircase leading up to the upper landing. The corridor is dark, the power out, and the shades are drawn over the windows. He finds the darkness spooky. He walks quietly down the hallway and turns left, down another hallway. The darkness is suffocating. He’s happy when he reaches the kitchen. One of the windows is shattered, the glass lying scattered over the kitchen table. A plate of rotting food sits untouched. One of the chairs is knocked over. He goes to the fridge and pulls it open. The light doesn’t come on, and the refrigerator isn’t cold. He kneels down and looks inside. Wrapped ham, a carton of milk, some Tupperware containers filled with noodles. Ah, yes, there. He reaches inside and grabs a bottle of GATORADE. GLACIER FREEZE is imprinted on the colored paper wrap. He twists off the cap and stands by the fridge, taking large drinks. It helps his hangover. Holding the GATORADE in his hand, he walks over the broken window. The frame is bent outwards and broken, as if something had crawled inside. For a moment he imagines a panther crouched in the darkness, eyes watching him. A quiet chuckle pushes the ludicrous idea out of his Anthony Barnhart