The Third Floor Part 29

Liz stared at her for a second, wondering what this person was doing in her apartment when she should be in Angel Hill, haunting the third floor. And that thought brought something to mind, some piece of what was wrong, but it was just out of her reach and she couldn't fully grasp it.

She moved toward the girl and a final chord was struck. The tone hung in the air, vibrating in Liz's head, then faded.

"Why are you here?" Liz asked. Sarah sat up straighter at the sound of Liz's voice. Then she turned, rotating sideways toward Liz. The face was dead, but not rotted. The hair was lifeless, the skin pale. The eyes were glazed over. The girl opened her mouth.

"WAKE UP!!!" she screamed.

Adam topped the second floor and moved into the main room. His sister sat at the piano, ethereal, vague. Since their mother's death, the Denglers had done without a number of things, and while she hadn't taken a lesson in months, their father insisted she practice, knowing their mother would never want her to quit something she showed so much promise at. So she practiced. On the bench next to her sat her doll.

A shadow that resembled his youngest brother rolled a truck over the hills and b.u.mps on the couch.

The middle brother had sat at the window for hours, rolling his plastic ball back and forth across the sill while he waited for their father.

Adam turned away from this scene, knowing it wasn't real, that the things he saw before him were just recordings the house had made, images, not even as substantial as the ghosts that roamed the house. These were just memories.

He pa.s.sed the kitchen and saw himself making lunch for the others, just as he'd done that day. More memories, more images projected by the house. But not real.

He started up the stairs again and the front door banged open. The gla.s.s shattered and fell in a shower of sparkles. Stomping footsteps came toward him, up the stairs, and his father's image flickered in and out, hung over, haggard, and murderous.

The ghost-image Adam came from the kitchen to intercept, knowing how bad their father could be when he'd been drinking.

Adam stood on the stairs and watched the scene play out with transparent people.

"I've got their lunch done," the Adam-image said. "You can go lie down if you want. I'll take care of them."

His father grunted something and disappeared into his bedroom. In the past few months, he'd been trying to get the bottom floor turned into a separate apartment and renting it out for some extra money. The kids' rooms were on the third floor and Milo's was in the room off the second floor's main room, which they'd made the living room. They'd all been living only on the top two floors for a while and he'd learned to keep down the noise when their father was in bed.

The door closed, the children ate their lunch, and Adam sent them outside to play in the back yard. He stayed in to straighten up while their father slept. While he gathered a few toys scattered next to the couch, he heard something in his father's room. Creeping closer, careful to be silent, he listened closer. It sounded like crying. This was nothing new. Since their mother died, his father cried almost regularly. Whether in mourning or from stress, Adam didn't know. Since his father had started coming home drunk, Adam had learned to stay clear of his path and try to keep things at home in order.

While the Joey-Adam stood watching, the ghost-image Adam pa.s.sed by on the stairs, went into the room that used to be his, and the door closed.

He waited. His heart beat hard in Joey's chest. Within seconds, his father's door opened and he watched a shadow that resembled his father float up the stairs. In its hand was a thick wooden board.

The day all this had happened for real, Adam wondered for a second where the board had come from, just before it slammed into his skull. Now that he saw his father brought it out from his room, he wondered again, Where did it come from? Had he been planning this?

The rest he didn't need to see; he knew it. His father came into Adam's room, caught him off guard, and swung. The board knocked him out, bringing a swell of black across his vision and a thump against the floor.

His father came out then, wiped his brow, and panted, "Everyone will suffer now."

Jack played a rhythm pattern against Charley's blues lead, letting himself sink into the sound and motion of playing. He didn't pay much attention to his fingers or the changes; he'd let himself go and his hands went where they should automatically.

While Charley went off on another run, in the back of Jack's mind, a thought was forming.

It grew form and substance and soon moved further up.

Charley turned toward Jack and did a fret-long slide to the top of the neck, slid his fingers into the rhythm Jack had established, and Jack took over the lead.

The divorce, raising Joey, supporting the both of them and still finding someone to take care of his son while he worked--through all of it, this had been Jack's release. At first, it had been hard to deal with and he saw himself having either an anxiety attack or a heart attack by the time he was thirty. But once he picked up Lily and began learning to play her in earnest, every night after Joey went to bed, this was his tranquilizer, this was his joint, his cold beer, his cigarette, his cookie, his o.r.g.a.s.m, everything one might ever need in order to relax, Jack had found in this chunk of wood with the metal wires.

His first inspiration had been, of course, Hendrix. But after a while, Jack realized no one was ever going to emulate Hendrix. You could learn to play a Hendrix song, but that's all it would ever be, you playing a Hendrix song. So he went down a few steps, learning the original blues styles, then moving up again to the Texas Blues, Stevie Ray Vaughan in particular. SRV had been a huge Hendrix fan and his style was similar while not being as wild.

He bought as many SRV records as he could find and then got whatever videotaped concerts he saw. He bought the Stevie Ray Tribute video and watching that had led him to a number of other guitarists he would study. Within a year, he'd drowned himself in so much blues, he could play it without thinking. He let it come up from within, down in his gut, flowing out through his fingers.

It was something he didn't have to think about, just something that was, something that existed as its own thing with no other logic or thought. His fingers flew and his mind was free and his gut churned with deep things that came out and filled Charley Clark's garage with sound and feeling.

And that thought in the middle of Jack's mind came further toward the front while he played and fell away from the real world, a thought that said not everything had to have a logic behind it, because some things--like this--could just be because they were and that was all.

A part of him fought this notion, but another part felt the music rising up and felt the strings bend and slide under his fingers and this part knew that that might be right.

For one fraction of a second, he let himself listen to that thought and he found it spoke with Liz's voice.

"You want to find out what's wrong, go to the house and try the third floor. Whole bunch of stuff wrong up there."

And once that much was in, it was easier for other bits to sneak in.

"What I'm trying to tell you through your stupid f.u.c.king logic-haze is that Joey's brown eyes are now green."

And that was true, wasn't it? But how could that be possible?

The same way it's possible you didn't have a nervous breakdown after Joey's mother left. Feel those strings under your fingers, feel the neck against your palm, and the weight on your shoulder from the strap. Feel the sound coming from the amp, feel the way your spine tingles when you get the slide just right and it makes that sound that makes you feel like your slipping backwards out of the world. Some things just are because they are, without reason or thought. Sometimes there is a pattern, but it doesn't always fit the world you know. Like a chord pattern. Any combination of chords will fit together, but only certain progressions will make a person smile. So why can't Joey's eyes be green?

Because that means there really is something wrong.

That's right. So do something about it. Quit playing with yourself and do something about it!

His fingers broke off mid-note and the pick hit the concrete floor.

"s.h.i.+t," he said.

Charley stopped strumming.

"What's the matter? That was gold, man."

Jack slid out of Lily's strap, set her aside on her stand, and switched off his amp. He dug his keys from his pocket.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I forgot I've got to get home for a little bit. I'll get Lily later, I've got to hurry. So, uh, keep playing. With any luck, I'm a moron and I'll be back."

With that, he was out the door. Charley stood dumbstruck, holding his guitar with his fingers positioned to strum again. Instead, he ended up standing there for at least two full minutes wondering What the h.e.l.l?

Liz sat up with a gasp, wide awake and panting.

Where was Joey? She ran into his room, found it empty, then ran down the hall again, through the living room, into the kitchen, out the back door, hoping--praying--he'd gone outside to play.

He was nowhere. At the back of the yard, Liz called for him.

Across the alley, the old naked woman peeked out from behind her s.h.i.+elding curtain.

Liz looked up at the house, dread at seeing Joey, or worse--the little girl--staring down flooded through her. The windows were empty. But the house was different. She could see that. The white exterior had darkened to a dull yellow. The windows stared back, the back door hung open, inviting her, daring her.

A shadow pa.s.sed over the house--the entire house, like a huge invisible cloud--and she took off at a full on run for the door.

"You can't save yourself," Milo Dengler whispered as he shambled down the stairs. "Everyone will suffer now. You can't save yourself."

The ghost-image walked through Adam on the stairs. Adam's skin broke out in gooseflesh. He wiped sweat from his eye and rubbed at a spot on his neck. When he pulled his hand away, he saw blood.

The ghost-Dengler disappeared before reaching the second floor. Adam went to the top and into the bathroom, stared into the mirror, saw the pink, wrinkled flesh on Joey's neck was an open wound and running with red in a sluggish flow.

From downstairs he heard Milo Dengler calling the others in from outside through the kitchen window. Stay outside, he thought. Stay outside and be safe. Run. He tried to push his thoughts outward toward his sister, Take the others and run!, then he remembered this was all past. Nothing he saw was real, just memories the house dredged up.

The ghost-Dengler came back up the stairs, followed by the three other children, wondering what their father wanted with them upstairs. Did he have presents for them?

No, Adam wanted to tell them.

He stood by helpless, bleeding, while the scene played out again before him. The wood, his father's desperate blows, the blood, the screams of terror from his brothers and sister, the hitching sobs from his father when it was done.

From the corner of his eye, he caught motion, and he looked and saw himself stumbling from the room, dazed, dizzy, shaking his head, wondering what was going on.

His father hears movement, he looks up from his wet hands, and he acts before he can think. The board swings around, cracks Adam in the jaw. He flies to the side, hits the wall, then looks over and sees his brothers and sister lying dead. He screams, then lunges forward. His father swings the board again, Adam tries to duck out of the way, the board misses, but a nail poking from the end catches the flesh below his chin, at the spot where his jaw meets his neck, and tears him open. Adam goes down, gurgling and sputtering blood. He dies within a minute.

And that's all Adam saw the first time.

The next few minutes are new to him.

Milo Dengler brings clothes from the childrens' rooms, dresses them, and takes them into the corner bedroom, Adam's room. He lines them up against the wall, sitting with their backs pressed against the wallpaper.

He kneels before them and whispers, "Forgive me," over and over, panting between words.

"Forgive me--(pant, pant)--forgive me--(pant, pant)--forgive me."

While he pleads, his hands work a rope into a noose. When he's finished, he secures the noose to the top rail, slips it over his neck, climbs over, lowers himself so his face is even with the banister, then he drops. The fall isn't far enough to snap his neck, but the rope tightens around his throat and Adam can tell he wants to struggle, but as tears fall down his red, puffed face, he keeps his fingers clenched, one hand holding the other so he can't fight.

When the ghost-image dies, Adam stares at it, wondering.

It's still there. It hasn't vanished. In fact, it seems to have gained solidity.

Then the eyes snap open and move sideways to Adam. The mouth opens in a grin Adam can't discern between malicious and gleeful.

"Let us go," Adam says. The words barely make a sound in the silence.

The ghost stops grinning and mouths the word, "No."

Jack tried to use his mind to make the stop light turn green, but the d.a.m.ned thing seemed stuck on red as car after car after car pa.s.sed him. He turned his attention toward the opposite green light, trying to will it yellow, but nothing happened. He closed his eyes, banged his forehead on the steering wheel, and yelled, "Let's go!"

When he looked up, he faced a green light.

He took off, squealing the tires, and leaving the driver behind him wondering what was with the crazy guy in front of him.

He'd made the drive from Charley's to his house over a dozen times, but couldn't remember it ever having taken so c.o.c.ksucking long. It wasn't even that far. h.e.l.l, nothing in Angel Hill was far; the town wasn't that big.

Ahead he saw Roland Street and he knew he was close.

A truck pulled out in front of him and Jack slammed on the brakes. He skidded to a stop less than a foot from the truck. The driver flipped him off, yelled something, and then pulled away.

Jack's heart thudded. He looked over his shoulder and saw the stop sign he'd almost ran.

I have to pay attention, he told himself. If not for myself, then for Joey and Liz. Get home, but do it in one piece.

Adam moved away from the staring ghost that hung in front of him. He climbed to the third floor, then set the toys on the top step. The doll, the truck, the plastic ball. Then he stood back, turned toward his father again and asked once more, "Let us go."

His father didn't answer and Adam took that as a no.

He sighed. He looked at the toys and saw what looked like steam rising from them. Milo Dengler saw it wafting up and his face twisted, questioning.

He seemed to get an idea what might be happening and he opened his mouth. His voice came out dead and cracked, like an old record that's been played too many times. When he moved, his old skin broke like distressed paper.

"You belong here."

"No," Adam said. "You decided that. Why?"

While Adam talked, the steam from the toys rose, took shape, gained substance. His brothers and his sister stood at the top of the stairs, looking over the rail at their father.

Milo looked at his son, then over his shoulder and he saw the others.

He looked back at Adam, then he vanished.

Jack was out of the car almost before the engine stopped running. He leapt up the steps from the sidewalk, and was at the porch in almost four strides. He bounded up to the door and tried to go through, but it was locked. He fumbled with the keys, knowing which was the right one, but somehow unable to find the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Finally another key fell to the side and revealed the front door key. He jammed it home, turned, and pushed. The door banged open, and then Jack noticed the broken gla.s.s. He could have stepped through at any time. He wondered for a second why the gla.s.s was broken, and if it was all connected to the third floor and whatever was happening up there.

He had to find Joey.

He flew down the stairs, ducked into Joey's room. It was empty. The house had an almost unreal quality, something he couldn't place, something foggy and dreamlike. There was a ringing, high-pitched whine in the air.

"Joe?" he called.

In the bathroom. Nothing. In their bedroom. Nothing.

"Joe?"

Under the bed? No. He turned, saw smoke, ran for the living room.

Liz beat at flames that sprang from the floor and couch, coughing smoke and fighting the sting in her eyes.

Not a dream quality, Jack thought. Not foggy unreality, but totally real danger.

"What the h.e.l.l is happening?" he yelled.

"I was asleep," she said over the smoke detector. "I had a cigarette. I guess it fell and caught the carpet."

You stupid b.i.t.c.h! Jack wanted to yell, but he had more important things to worry about right now.