House Haunted (14 page)

“Goddamnit, Laura, where are you?” Peter said to him-self, studying the panel. There were names in all but two panels, and he put the cooler down on the lobby floor and pushed the first. There was no answer. He counted to thirty and then pushed it again, longer. Still no answer.

He turned his attention to the other buzzer, and again there was no reaction. Once more he counted to thirty, then leaned on it for a count of twenty. Nothing.

He cursed and began to study the panels with names in them, looking for a clue, when the light on the second blank panel lit and a voice said sleepily from the speaker, “Hello?”

“Laura?”

“Yes?”

“It's me, Peter.”

“Peter . . .” The grogginess didn't leave her voice. He waited for it to, but when she spoke again, her words were still heavy. “What do you want?”

“Laura, let me come up.”

“Go home, Peter . . .”

Before he could think, his hand had slapped at the speaker. “Goddamnit, let me in!”

He thought she had turned the intercom off. There was a long silence, and then she said, no more brightly, “Okay.”

He grabbed the cooler and yanked at the door as the buzzer unlocking it went off briefly. If he hadn't lurched at it, he would have missed it. He was halfway into the open elevator when he realized that he didn't remember what number her room was. 1212 or 1221? He held the elevator door open with his hand, trying to visualize the number next to the empty name panel. He couldn't do it.

“
Shit
.”

He stalked back to the lobby door, opened it, and wedged the cooler into the opening so it wouldn't close. The number was 1214.

He went back to the elevator and took it to the twelfth floor, reflecting that an optimist would have pointed out that he'd at least gotten the floor right.

Fuck optimism.

The elevator door opened, and he walked resolutely to 1214. There was no answer. A brief fear that he had read the wrong number on the panel downstairs assailed him. No, he was sure at least of that. He felt cold, and shivered; there was an open window down the hallway and he closed it.

“Come
on
, Laura,” he said impatiently, knocking on the door again.

He leaned close, listening, but there was no sound from within.

The doorknob turned and the door opened.

“Laura?”

It was pitch black inside. He waited for her to appear in the doorway. He could hear the muted hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, but nothing else.

“Laura?” he called into the apartment.

“Peter?” he heard from somewhere in the back.

“What the fuck—” he cursed, stepping in, feeling for a light switch on the wall. There was one, and it was up.
Fucking Canadians probably do it ass backward.
He flipped the switch down. There was the tiny click of the mercury element inside, but no light went on.

He switched it up and down a couple of times. Nothing happened.

“Laura?” he called again, not hiding his annoyance.

“Hmmmm . . .”

She sounded half asleep. Or drugged.

He stepped into the darkened apartment. Immediately, he tripped over something. As he regained his balance it abruptly occurred to him that there might be an intruder in the apartment.

 
“Are you all right, Laura?” he said, worried now. “Yes . . .”

Peter felt someone behind him, put his hand out suddenly—and there was someone there. A hand touching his, then pulling away.

“Who the hell—”

He backed away from the door. There were other objects in his path. He tripped and fell. There was a noise behind him at the doorway. He got up and walked to it and looked down the hall. It was empty.

Whoever it had been was gone.

He returned to the apartment and found himself in the entrance to a room. There was a green glow, and his heart jumped—then he saw it was a digital readout over a stove. He was in the kitchen.

He yelled, “Laura?”

“Yes, Peter,” she said.

He checked the bathroom, but there was no one there.

Next to the bathroom was a door that proved to lead to a linen closet. Another door stood open at the end of the hall, filled with darkness. There was another light at the end of the hallway. He flicked it on. The shadows retreated into the room at the end of the hall. He saw the outlines of disarray: pulled-down bed sheets, clothes on the floor, drawers on a dresser against the wall pulled out, a bra hanging forlornly from one of the pullout knobs.

“Christ,” Peter said. The implication of what had happened dawned on him. He remembered the felt touch in the front room, hoping the intruder had indeed left. A tendril of fear told him his hope might not be right.

“Laura?” he shouted, loudly, hoping that any neighbors might be awakened. “Lau—”

“Here, Peter.”

Her drugged voice, close-by, in the bedroom.

“Where are you?” His voice was tinged with hysteria now. “I'm here.”

He entered the room and groped for the light switch. There wasn't any. There was an overturned lamp near the dresser; he picked it up and twisted the switch. Nothing happened. He felt along the cord till the plug came into his hand. He patted the wall for an outlet but couldn't locate one.

He yanked the dresser away from the wall in frustration. The tepid light from the hallway wouldn't reach. Cursing, he moved the flat of his hand around for the protrusion of an outlet. It was there, at the far end. He butted the dresser away viciously to get at it.

He pulled the lamp into his self-made cave, turned it on. Light hurt his eyes. He blinked and stood up, putting the lamp onto the dresser.

“Jesus.”

The room was a bigger mess than he had imagined. Everything had been tossed around or rearranged. Kitchen utensils were scattered about on the floor, glasses and plates in low piles near the bed. The sheets had been pulled from the bed, exposing the mattress, which had seemingly been raked with a sharp instrument. Tufts of padding were pulled from ragged holes. A chair lay broken by the clothes closet.

“Laura, where in God's name are you!”

“Here,” she said weakly, from the closet.

He pushed his way across the room and yanked on the closet door.

A smell hit him as he saw her, and the odor, as much as the sight of her, repulsed and shocked him. But then his eyes became the dominating sensors.

“Oh,
God
!”

She lay in the back corner of the closet, huddled like a child, naked. Her hair was matted thick with blood and what looked like human waste, her body covered with bruises. She was smeared with a coating of excrement that in some places caked her flesh completely.

“Oh, Jesus, Laura.”

“Hello, Peter.”

Her eyes were open and too clear. She smiled up at him, moving her hands, which had been holding her knees, up over her thighs to her breasts. She rubbed at them, exciting the nipples before reaching down with one hand to pick up one of the turds that lay nearby and bringing it up to her mouth and putting it in.

She chewed slowly, lowering her hands to cup her breasts and held them out to him.

Peter began to tremble. Shock gave way to outrage. He reached down to lift her out of the closet, but she suddenly stretched her body out lengthwise on the floor and pulled her legs apart, bending her knees. She felt around on the floor and found another turd, thrusting it into the encrusted cavity between her legs, trying to work it into her vagina. She moaned, putting her weight on her toes and shoulder blades and lifting her pelvis off the floor.

“Peter, that feels so good, please do it again.”

She searched for another turd with one hand, still writhing, her other hand working between her legs.

Peter bent down and grabbed her hand. He turned his face away to avoid the odor. He began to gag.

“
No! What are you doing?
” She fought him, trying to make him let go. His stomach heaved, but he held on. She clawed at him and he cried out, but he retained his grip, hoisting her up and then securing her under the arms, walking her back out of the closet.

“No! No!”

“Goddamnit, Laura!”

“Leave me alone!”

He pulled her toward the bed. Suddenly she said, “For you, Peter,” in a silky voice and he felt wetness on his leg. She had spread her legs and was urinating on him. He cursed, continuing to drag her body, and she said, “And this for you, Peter,” in the same sex-drugged voice, and she pressed her buttocks against him. He heard and felt the sourness of excretion as a runnel of shit left her and ran onto his leg.

“Oh, God, oh, Jesus,” he said, fighting the urge to vomit. But suddenly it was too strong, and he loosened his grip on her, setting her down on the floor. He turned his head away and threw up. All the beer he had drunk during the ride up churned up into his throat and out, all the rotten sour food he had eaten the past twelve hours came up and out of him in a thunder of revulsion. He heaved endlessly, doubled over, until there was nothing left in his stomach. He heaved dryly, eyes closed, hands on his middle, then gagged, spitting bile, trying to blind himself to the sour taste in his mouth.

“That's
good
, Peter,” Laura said. She had turned over at his feet and was lapping like a dog at his vomitus. “Good!” she cried, pulling herself forward into the puddle, covering her body, rolling over to look up at him with a horrible inhuman face. She smoothed vomit over her breasts, her belly, into the thatch of hair between her legs. “Yes!” she shouted excitedly, opening her mouth, vomiting, gagging out bits of dried waste and sour food.

“No more!” Peter shouted. He bent down and hit her. The blow caught her on the cheek. Her eyes brightened and she said, “Yes!” before he hit her again, flush in the face.

She fell back unconscious.

He stood shaking, wanting to vomit again, bending over but unable to bring anything up. He moaned and stepped over Laura's unconscious form. He stumbled out of the room, hands on the walls for support, to the bathroom.

He turned on the hot and cold water, making a hard jet run into the sink. He took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He cupped his hands under the water and washed his face. He looked for soap. There was none, so he brought great handfuls of water up and scrubbed into his pores and his neck and into his hair, then washed around his wrists and lower arms. There was one towel thrown over the bathtub; it looked unwashed but he didn't care, and he dried himself with it, ignoring the moldy smell of it.

He turned on the water in the bathtub hard, as hot as he could get it, and then he went back into the bedroom.

She lay where he had hit her, head turned to one side. He reached down to check her pulse. It was strong. He bent down in a weight-lifter's crouch and lifted her, grunting, and brought her into the bathroom.

The mirror was steamed. He checked to make sure the water was not too hot before laying her in the tub.

He soaked the towel in hot water and began to rub at the filth that covered her body. He had to stop frequently, turning his head away to gag, but he kept at it, starting with her feet and moving gently upward. He let the putrid water drain and refilled the tub. He resumed his washing until the water became filthy again and then repeated the process.

When he was finished, he filled the tub once more with a few inches of warm water and rolled the towel and pillowed her head with it. He stood and looked down at her. A shiver ran through him. He had seen her naked only four or five times, when they had made love up at his parents' cabin over holiday weekends. He had seen her plenty of times in bathing suits. But she had never been this skinny. He had seen her a little less than a week ago, and he knew she hadn't looked like this then. Her bruised ribs showed unhealthily below her breasts. Her cheeks were hollow, her arms overly thin. He could almost curl his thumb and forefinger around her ankle. Her body was covered with scores of black-and-blue marks, scratches, half-healed cuts and gouges. In places there were neat lines of round little holes; it looked as though the tines of a fork had been pressed into her. She looked like an inmate from a prisoner of war camp.

“Jesus, Laura, what happened to you?” he asked. He wanted to cry. He noted with a wince the bruise that was forming over her lip on the right side where he had hit her. He left her soaking in the tub and returned to her bedroom. The thought occurred to him that he should call the police.

But he hesitated. What would the Canadian police say, finding him here at three in the morning, half drunk, telling wild stories about someone trapping her in her own apartment for a week and turning her into someone who only wanted to eat and have sex with her own shit . . .

He took a leg of the broken chair and checked through the rest of the apartment. As he had thought, whoever it was had left. He stared hard at the open front door for a moment, but then he closed and locked it, put the chain across it, and went back to the bedroom.