Scraps & Chum (11 page)

The wounded man drew closer, leaving a trail of gore behind him, until finally he loomed over Dane. His eyes were cloudy and dry, his skin cracked and flaky and sallow, his teeth angled all wrong as if he
’
d shoved them into his own gums without regard to symmetry. A sad smile spread across his face, denoting a pathos Dane couldn
’
t place.

And that was the curious bit. Judging by the slight smile and aged frame, there was nothing actually malicious about him, not that Dane could tell anyway. If anything, the man looked…content. Not content with the gunshot wound, b
ut…somehow…content with his role
as a victim. As if he
’
d accepted it with a
que sera
attitude. He looked the way Dane
’
s grandpa looked when he would sit alone in a lawn chair at the family get-togethers while everyone else played horseshoes and went swimming. Content to be forgotten, and occasionally patronized, because inside he was truly just happy to be watching his legacy, just happy to be there as a part of it all.

The bleeding man before Dane registered such contentment
behind the gore
. The sad eyes, the friendly smile, the non-threatening physique.

Dane swallowed hard and asked,
“
Are you okay? You
’
re bleeding. I…my wife…I need to call an ambulance.
”

With some care, the figure took his hand away from the hole in his head, blood rushing to freedom, and pointed at a photo on the ground to Dane
’
s right. It was leaning against the wall, along with some others, waiting to be packed up. Without looking, Dane knew which one it was, having placed it there not long ago. It showed him and Matti standing in the living room—this very room where I stand cornered by a dying man, he realized—wearing matching San Diego Chargers sweatshirts. Matti
’
s mother had taken it during last year
’
s playoffs.

“
Who…who shot you? Let me help you. My phone is
—
”

Dane headed to the table but the old man moved in front of him, blocking his path. A burst of adrenaline rushed through Dane, but again, the man did not come off as threatening
, just insistent
.

“
My phone…
”

Shaking his head but still smiling, the man pointed to another of the photos, this one resting on the ground near Dane
’
s foot, where Matti had left it while packing. Dane looked at it, made out what it was even in the darkness.

“
What? The photo? It
’
s…it
’
s Matti and me at Christmas. I don
’
t understand and I don
’
t have time
—
”

As emphatically as the hurt man could muster, he pointed to the photo again, blood running off his hand onto the carpet, urging Dane to take another look.

“
Okay.
”
Dane
bent down and picked
up the photo. Even in the dim moonlight, the picture was as he remembered it, a jovial snapshot of the two of them holding up pairs of socks, taken with the timer setting on the camera. As he stared at it, remembering the day fondly, a sallow-skinned finger dotted with blood tapped the glass frame.

Dane ignored it.
“
I n
eed my phone.
”

Again, the finger tapped the glass, tapped it in the same spot repeatedly, leaving a coppery fingerprint. Looking at the bloodied man, Dane shook his head to show his confusion.

S
till smiling contentedly, the man wiped the blood off the picture
’
s glass covering and tapped it again.

The fingerprint appeared again in the same spot.

The man pushed the picture closer to Dane
’
s face, as if to say, look harder.

“
This is crazy.
”
Confused and scared, Dane tore the back off the frame and pulled the photo out, careful not to rip it. It was a good memory and he wanted to keep it safe, especially in light of the memories he
’
d be losing a day from now as he handed the house keys over to the new owners. He remembered that Christmas morning well, the way the tree
looked in the living room, the
way both he and Matti felt that the house was really beginning to feel like home. He remembered pulling out the socks and remarking how much they both needed them, laughing that they were officially grownups now for thinking that way.

Where the bloody fingerprint had been on the glass, there was a lensflare in the photo.

The finger tapped it.

“
That? The camera…it
’
s old, it does that
—
”

The bloody finger rose to the first photo again, the one with Dane and Matti in football sweatshirts, and pressed against it.

Dane bent and picked up the photo. Again, he found the familiar lens flare that was common in many of their photos. He
’
d meant to buy a new camera, but had never found
the time. He put the photo back. A
nother photo near it, taken in the kitchen on Thanksgiving, also had the lens flare.

But the one under it did not. It was taken at Disneyland with the same camera, and was flawless.

Intent to prove whatever point he was out to prove, the man pointed toward the foyer. A multi-picture frame still hung near the front door, Dane knew, containing similar photos; it hadn
’
t been packed yet. It had been due to get boxed up when their need to feel each other had gotten the better of them, drawing them to the stairs where they made love.

“
I
have to help my wife, I can
’
t—
”

The old man shook his head no and pointed to the foyer again.

Hastily, Dane went to the frame in the foyer and looked at it. Even in the darkness of the room, he could see the man reflected in the glass behind him, his face still a mass of red, pointing to one of the photos in the upper corner. It was taken in the kitchen as well, a picture of Dane drinking a Budweiser.

Lens flare.

Beneath it, a photo taken outside a nightclub.

No flare

Picture in the bedroom.

Lens flare.

From upstairs, Matti
’
s voice filled the foyer, quick as ever and still hushed.
“
He
’
s bleeding on the rug on the rug on the rug.
”
Then, without breaking tempo, the refrain changed, causing Dane to spin and look up the stairs.
“
I shot him. I didn
’
t mean to, the gun just went off. Please hurry, I love him. He
’
s bleeding on the rug…
”

The timbre was clearly Matti, but it sounded as if she were trying to mimic someone. She was good at mimicking people. She did it at parties sometimes. She could do Holly Golightly like it was nobody
’
s business. But this was not a game. This was something else.

What spread through Dane next was not terror, or fear, or panic, or even more confusion, as he would have expected, but disbelief. The sum of all the parts was falling into place, painting a picture he found hard to digest. After all, he did not believe in ghosts

The gun-shot man, seeing Dane
’
s wheels spinning, began to nod approvingly. He closed his eyes as his smile perked up at the sides, his blood now hitting the hardwood floor of the foyer. And with the sadness in his eyes suddenly making sense to Dane, he put a hand to Dane
’
s shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly.

The touch was ver
y faint, Dane noticed, like someone rubbing a feather on the spot
. But it was frigidly cold, almost to the point of burning.

The old man followed this with a wave, a telltale wave that said, it
’
s been a pleasure. And with that, turned and headed through the entryway into the living room.

The squeeze, the wave, the turn…it was an unmistakable universal gesture.

Saying goodbye, Dane realized. He
’
s saying goodbye.

The lights flickered once and came on. Dane rushed into the living room, but the man was gone, just like that, taking the bloodstains with him. The carpet was as clean as it had been before he
’
d gone to bed.

Everything was silent.

Nothing was out of place. The boxes, the trash bags, the stacks of items waiting to be packed, all were exactly as they
’
d left them. He sat on a box of books he
’
d
packed
just a few hours earlier, full of Matti
’
s horror novels, and looked around him for answers. Did all that really just happen? He felt light headed, a little dizzy. Was what he
’
d just seen real, or was he imagining things?

He touched
the box, thinking of the contents insi
de
, and what he
’
d just experienced. Horror. The supernatural. Ghosts. Such bullshit. Matti joked that she read them for insurance—Ed Lee and Jack Ketchum and a bunch of other names that meant nothing to him—read them so she
’
d know what to do if she ever found herself staring down a demon. She once remarked she might be psychic. Said she was like a character in one of those books. Nonsense, he
’
d replied, that crap is warping your brain. Psychics are just frauds looking for money. It ain
’
t real.

Right? 

“
Dane? Where are you?
”
 

Oh God, he realized, Matti
’
s awake!

He took the stairs two at a time, this time knocking over a box of knick knacks, and rushed into the bedroom. Matti was sitting up, rubbing her eyes, feeling the empty spot in the bed next to her. She was all right, her complexion back to normal.

“
What are you doing?
”
she asked.
“
It
’
s almost four in the damn morning. I told you we
’
ll finish packing tomorrow. The truck isn
’
t coming till noon. Stop freaking out about it.
”