Audrey's Door Part 20

Aren't you tired of fighting? No one else has had to work so hard for so little. You deserve this. Build the door, and you can rest. Momma will take care of you.

Audrey looked at the cardboard construction and realized that it was wrong. Too perfectly flat, too st.u.r.dy. It didn't adhere to The Breviary's skews. Just like her dream of Clara's door, it would fall apart as soon as it opened. It needed curves, and functional chaos. It needed an architect instead of an opera singer, or a snotty author of personal histories. She smiled when she understood that 14B had picked her because it meant she was the most special girl.

Audrey hoisted the heavy rebar. The image zoomed closer. Ants scurried. Offscreen, an infant squawked, as if being burned. Betty's face sagged. Her eyes turned black. Something was inside her, wearing her skin like a coat.

Do it now, Audrey. There's not much time. Even buildings have their beginnings and ends.

Audrey blinked. Looked out the window at the driving rain. At her hands, full of tiny cactus wounds. Remembered the dream she'd had the night Betty died, "Better run, Lamb." And those red ants in Hinton, she'd forgotten them, but they'd been real. They'd come out from a nest beneath the floor. Maybe it was even true that they'd followed Betty to every town, because not everyone is lucky enough to be born whole. Maybe some demons are real.

I got tired of fighting, Lamb, the note had read. the note had read.

She understood then that this thing was not her mother. Nor was it Clara, or the tenants, or even Schermerhorn. This thing that called to her was The Breviary. But there was something The Breviary didn't know because she had not guessed it herself, until now.

She hated Betty Lucas. She wanted her dead. She'd always wanted her dead. Some nights in Yuma, and Hinton, and even Omaha, she'd imagined shoving a pillow over her Betty's mouth while she slept. And every time she'd smoked a joint, or gone for a long walk, or gotten drunk, or cleaned a room twenty times, or even sliced her own skin, it had not been out of self-loathing, but to calm her own red ants, so she didn't lose her temper and shove a knife through Betty's throat.

She lifted the rebar. Her blood ran hot in her veins as she swung. "I!" The rod reverberated in her hands. The wires encasing it tw.a.n.ged against her palms, but her calluses were so thick they didn't cut. She swung again: "Hate!" Swung again: "Ughhh! You!" Her whole body slammed, and then s.h.i.+vered along with the rebar. She swung again: "I hate you!" Again. Again. Again. "I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I don't want to go back. I don't want it fixed. It's over. It's dead. Why aren't you?"

She chopped Betty Lucas' face. Her black-and-white-film-still eyes bugged in wild surprise. The image bled the color black down the side of the door. As it pooled to 14B's floor, it turned to red. The red turned to tiny, pinching ants that marched down into the rotten hole, and inside the walls of The Breviary. The line thinned as Betty's blood drained dry.

"Hu! Ha!" she cried, as the last of the boxes fell. "Bye-bye!" Wolverine made a clump as he hit the ground. The hot-water faucet rolled lopsidedly from point to point, and her shouts became grunts, and sounds without meaning. And then simply gasping.

All her life, she'd dreamed of raising her voice at Betty. Screaming. Reciting any one of the thousand speeches she'd memorized. Or simply asking, "This life you put me through, have you really convinced yourself that you did it because you love me?" But always, she'd stifled herself. Always, she'd let Betty run the show. Until now.

She kept pounding until the boxes were tiny pieces on the floor that mixed with her clothes and stuck to the reopened and b.l.o.o.d.y wounds of her feet like homemade Band-Aids. Panting, too tired to strike one more time, she dropped the rebar.

The door lay in a pile.

"f.u.c.k you," she called to her mother, and 14B, and The Breviary, and even G.o.d, who ought, once in a while, to take sides.

Audrey, the walls whispered through the vibrations in the floor. It wasn't her mother's voice anymore-it had given that up. It was Schermerhorn, and Clara, and the children. It was the tenants, past and present, too. She could hear their thoughts. All one overpowering thought. The floor rumbled. The walls shook. The vibrations were a furious scream: the walls whispered through the vibrations in the floor. It wasn't her mother's voice anymore-it had given that up. It was Schermerhorn, and Clara, and the children. It was the tenants, past and present, too. She could hear their thoughts. All one overpowering thought. The floor rumbled. The walls shook. The vibrations were a furious scream: BUILD IT, YOU b.i.t.c.h!.

For once, she trusted herself and didn't hesitate. She ran. The walls went red behind her. Water poured out from the open bathroom door as she pa.s.sed. Her curiosity did not get the better of her. She did not look inside at the tub. Only heard the sounds of struggle. The sickly-sweet voice of the little girl who, in her terror, had accidentally suffocated her baby sister in her arms. "I squeezed too tight, Momma," hard-knock Olivia cried.

And then, the monster, in reply. Her voice strangely kind, like she was doing them all a favor. "Into the tub with you, Ol-lovely, and it will all be over. We'll be together forever."

Audrey turned the handle and escaped 14B.

31.

Do Black Sheep Dream?

Out!

She shut 14B's door behind her, sweat dripping down her brow, arms and back aching from the weight of the rebar. The hall was lit pink as a little girl's bedroom. She stabbed the elevator b.u.t.ton, decided it would take too long, and raced for the stairs.

As she ran, she pa.s.sed 14E, which was dark and ajar. Jayne. Hadn't she mentioned nightmares since Clara's death? And not sleeping? Hadn't she been stuck in this miserable place all week, on a wounded knee?

Audrey swung open the stairwell exit. Jayne was a big girl. She could take care of herself.

The metal fire steps rattled. Her bare feet burned as sores reopened, and she left a trail of blood. Already she knew what she'd do when she got out. Have Tom's Diner call Saraub, and if they refused, call the cops.

Rattle. Rattle. Twelfth floor. She slowed and thought of something. Smashed hula girl still lay in a pile in the hall. Given her ample free time, there had to be a reason that Jayne hadn't knocked, or written a note, or cleaned it up.

Jayne. That nitwit redhead. Audrey cursed her, then sprinted back to the fourteenth floor. She swung open 14E.

"Jayne, are you here?" she called.

No answer, but something in there creaked. It sounded like a rope. While the common hall was lit by a red bulb, once she walked inside 14E, the light left. She looked behind her. Saw the red carpet and 14B's shut door. Then faced Jayne's hall again, where it was so dark that she could not see her hands.

Creeeeaaaak! The sound came from high up, and about twenty feet ahead. What was it? The sound came from high up, and about twenty feet ahead. What was it?

She reached for a light. Her hands traced cool plaster. Then she remembered that unlike her own apartment, there was no switch, just a string hanging from a bulb about fifteen feet down. She walked farther inside with her hands spread wide. They spanned the width of the crooked hall while she slid her feet across the uneven floor instead of lifting them, to keep from tripping. With each slide, the mouthlike wounds on the pads of her feet gaped, trickling sticky blood between her toes.

Let her be okay. Let us both be okay, she mouthed, though she knew better than to speak, and break the silence. Her heart palpitated faster than when she'd smashed the door, because in this slow-moving dark, she had time to think. The sweat poured from her brow, as if she were still hacking, and she tried not to think about what she'd just come from, because what lay ahead might be worse. she mouthed, though she knew better than to speak, and break the silence. Her heart palpitated faster than when she'd smashed the door, because in this slow-moving dark, she had time to think. The sweat poured from her brow, as if she were still hacking, and she tried not to think about what she'd just come from, because what lay ahead might be worse.

Shhp-shhp was the sound her feet made as they slid. The farther she got, the more distant the common hall appeared. Its light was a pinp.r.i.c.k. She wanted very much to run back and meet it. Live in the light, where it was safe. She bit her lower lip to keep from hyperventilating, and reminded herself to breathe. She couldn't leave, because up ahead, she smelled freshly smoked Winston cigarettes: Jayne was here. was the sound her feet made as they slid. The farther she got, the more distant the common hall appeared. Its light was a pinp.r.i.c.k. She wanted very much to run back and meet it. Live in the light, where it was safe. She bit her lower lip to keep from hyperventilating, and reminded herself to breathe. She couldn't leave, because up ahead, she smelled freshly smoked Winston cigarettes: Jayne was here.

Creeeaaaak!

What was that? A part of her guessed, but the rest of her didn't want to know. She moved faster. Shhp!-shhp! Shhp!-shhp! Then bit her lip, and listened. The sound continued: Then bit her lip, and listened. The sound continued: Shhp!-shhp!

"Ohhh-" she started, then slapped her hand over her mouth to stifle her own gasp: something was in here with her.

Shhp!-shhp! It came a little closer. The sound was like sandpaper against marble. It came from behind, which meant that it had trapped her inside. She hitched her breath-the beginning wail of a crying jag, then squeezed her mouth and nose together to keep still. Maybe it couldn't see in this dark, either. Maybe if she just stayed quiet... It came a little closer. The sound was like sandpaper against marble. It came from behind, which meant that it had trapped her inside. She hitched her breath-the beginning wail of a crying jag, then squeezed her mouth and nose together to keep still. Maybe it couldn't see in this dark, either. Maybe if she just stayed quiet...

She lifted her feet. Placed them delicately back down as she walked. The thing followed. Shhp!-shhp! Shhp!-shhp!

So dark in here. Oh, G.o.d, and the air, so wet. Where was Jayne?

Shhp!-Shhp!

What was was that? She let go of her mouth, and her body reacted before her mind could censor it. "Jayne!" she screamed so loud and raggedly that her chest hurt from the expulsion of breath. that? She let go of her mouth, and her body reacted before her mind could censor it. "Jayne!" she screamed so loud and raggedly that her chest hurt from the expulsion of breath.

Silence answered. And then-Shhp-shhp! Shhp-shhp! Shhp-shhp!-it moved faster, and with more urgency. It was coming for her!

She kept going. Bare feet, gently picking their way through scattered objects. Something soft. Another thing, hard, that almost cut. Tears fell like bathwater. She wanted to slide down the side of the wall and give up. Curl into a ball, just like back in the Midwest, and hope her mother didn't see her.

Shhp!-shhp! Shhp!-shhp! It was so close. She could feel its eyes, searching. It was so close. She could feel its eyes, searching.

She stretched her hands out and felt the walls on either side. Picked up her pace. Behind, like a long-distance dance partner, the monster moved faster, too: Shhp!-Shhp! Shhp!-Shhp!

Suddenly, the left plaster wall was gone. Her hand dangled. She let out a high-pitched breath that made a sound, "Huuhoooh!"

On the left, a small bedroom. It was bright, like a picture from a movie in a dark theatre, even though the hall remained as ink. "Oh," she said. "Oh, no."

All those magazines Jayne had collected. They weren't scattered anymore. They were stacked and taped together into a four-foot-by-two-foot square against the wall. Someone had tried to rend a hole through them for a handle, but the paper was too thick. A tiny door.

She let out a cry. "Jaaa-" she said, then bit down on her lower lip, because the thing was even closer. She could smell it: old, desiccated skin.

Shhp-shhp! Shhp-shhp!

Faster! Another step. Another. As fast as she could, she greased the floor with her blood. Her hand slipped again. Another room. The master bedroom. Bright in there, too. Unmade bed. Wet rubber mattress. All the family photos that had been magnetized to the refrigerator now lay scattered on the floor. In every one of them, Jayne's face had been crossed out with thick, pink pen.

Another step. Another. She raced. Her chest cramped like a heart attack, but still she kept going.

SHHP!-SHHP! The thing was so close that she could feel the floor vibrating as it raced. In a panic, she gave up her silence: "Jayne!" The thing was so close that she could feel the floor vibrating as it raced. In a panic, she gave up her silence: "Jayne!"

Up ahead, something creaked.

"Hold on, Jayne. Please, hold on!"

Panting. Sweat dripping. Her heart slowing now, even though she was more terrified than ever, because her body was spent. Just a little farther, Just a little farther, she promised herself. Just a few more steps. Because she'd taken-how many? Eleven. The light pull had to be close. She guessed eight more steps. she promised herself. Just a few more steps. Because she'd taken-how many? Eleven. The light pull had to be close. She guessed eight more steps.

Seven. Six Five.

Shhp!-shhp! If it extended its arms, it could reach out and grab her. She picked up her pace and tried to put distance between them. If it extended its arms, it could reach out and grab her. She picked up her pace and tried to put distance between them. Tear down this place, G.o.d. Tear down this place, G.o.d. She pleaded, a silent nonsensical prayer. She pleaded, a silent nonsensical prayer. Swallow it. Devour it, so that it never was, and never will be. Swallow it. Devour it, so that it never was, and never will be.

Three more steps. She'd pulled ahead of it! But then, s.h.i.+t! Her right foot hooked inside something cold and hard. She spun, but the cold wouldn't let go. She lost her balance. Fell on something hollow and metal. Its rattle echoed throughout the hall. So loud!

Shhp!-shhp!

Metal, everywhere she reached. Her first thought was that she'd landed in a graveyard for the tenants who'd died in The Breve. Over the years their bones, and the metal rods and screws that had held them together had piled here. The thing that was making that sound (Shhp!-shpp! Shhp!-shhp!) (Shhp!-shpp! Shhp!-shhp!) was a human wraith, guarding its treasure lair. was a human wraith, guarding its treasure lair.

She grinned with resolve, tight and rictus, then tried to stand, but got caught on more metal (bones!).

Shhp!-shhp! It was close again. Arm's length. It was close again. Arm's length.

"Help me!" she cried. No one answered. Not even a nosy tenant. Where were they? Where was everyone? "Jayne!" she shouted. No answer. Silence. All alone, just like she'd always been alone.

Shhp!-shhp! She could feel the sonofab.i.t.c.h gaining. Overhead, still that creaking. A terrible sound. She could feel the sonofab.i.t.c.h gaining. Overhead, still that creaking. A terrible sound.

She turned. Her eyes by now had adjusted to the light. She saw. A man, or it had been once. A three-piece suit. It crawled on its hands and knees. Edgar Schermerhorn, only its eyes were black, and its skin hung loose and rotten from its curved, arachnid bones. Its arms were as long as its legs.

With a deep grunt, she hoisted herself up along the wall. Hopped on one leg, but tripped again on the metal ring, and fell again, too. Landed in the same place. Her kneecap came loose. The sound was like an airtight jar twisting open. Explosions of sparks. "Oooowww!" she howled as her body went into cold shock, then scrambled on her hands and good leg, dragging the b.u.m one behind her.

Two more steps. One more step. No more steps. The rope had to be here, in the center of the hall.

Shhp!-shhp!, the thing behind her. She could hear its wheezing breath. Something cold and soft grazed the back of her foot. A finger, perhaps. Or a spider's leg. the thing behind her. She could hear its wheezing breath. Something cold and soft grazed the back of her foot. A finger, perhaps. Or a spider's leg.

"Go away!" she cried as she hoisted herself again, using her good leg and letting the other one dangle. Waves of pain came too fast for throbbing; instead they were an endless red scream. Weeping, she turned her back on it and reached for the switch. She didn't know she was speaking, nor what she was saying as her hands swung blindly through the air: "Huhuh. YoucandoitAudreypleasedoitIknowyoucan huhuh..."

Panic. Another cold, soft finger. This time, it grazed her neck. The pull string! Where was it?

Creak! Something warm and wet trickled from above. It dripped along her hairline. A spider's web? She felt the displaced air like a summer fan's soft breeze, and then Schermerhorn was upon her. He pulled her down by the shoulders and onto the floor. Something warm and wet trickled from above. It dripped along her hairline. A spider's web? She felt the displaced air like a summer fan's soft breeze, and then Schermerhorn was upon her. He pulled her down by the shoulders and onto the floor.

His breath, old and boozy. Too unspeakable to scream. She flailed, tearing away his soft parts as his fingers squeezed her throat. Maybe his clothes. Maybe his skin. And then he was looking at her. Spider eyes. They stole all the light, so that even his reflection was gone, and she understood now why the hall had been so dark. "No one gets out!" it shouted.

It squeezed tighter. She flailed in the dark with her thumbs c.o.c.ked, seeking to squash his eyes, and wis.h.i.+ng she'd kept that engagement ring, so she would die with something of his still close.

And then, suddenly, the hall lit up. Everything got bright. The man-thing was gone. The hall was empty. In shock, she flailed the air. "Ahhh! Ahhh!" she sputtered, her legs pulled close to her body, kneecap floating. Feet bleeding. Shadowboxing a ghost.

All down the hall were the streaking footprints of her blood, as if she'd walked alone. The tenants watched her from just outside 14E. She noticed this in a flash, then turned her face to The Breviary's heavens. Something dripped. And creaked.

She hoisted herself up. Sparks of pain strong as defibrillator currents pulsed through her skin. Up above, saddle shoes swayed in concentric circles. Their soles were worn to a thin layer of rubber, and wrapped around one knee was a thick Ace bandage. Dyed red hair, faux diamond earrings lining her infected left lobe like decoration. A felt poodle skirt, open and flowing like a flower to reveal pale, bruised legs. Like a dirty old man's joke, white underpants, wet and soiled.

Drip. Drip. Urine pelted Audrey's forehead, because when people die, their bladders release.

She saw now what she'd tripped over. Not bones. A metal ladder, from which Jayne had climbed, then kicked aside. The rope wasn't tied right. Her neck wasn't broken. That was why she was swinging, and the reason the rope had creaked. Too much slack.

She looked lonely as she rocked, so Audrey reached up and touched the sole of Jayne's left shoe. "Silly girl," she said, then burst into tears, as the tenants of The Breviary approached.

32.

Baby's Breath Six days after Audrey Lucas discovered Jayne Young's body hanging from a noose, Jill Sidenschwandt's phone rang. It was two in the morning, and her Madison Avenue bedroom was liquid ebony. Tom reached across the king-sized bed and swatted the antique rotary off the Prince Edward nightstand, then draped his arm over her and squeezed.

Jill burrowed her face into her pillow. "Noooooo," she moaned. It had to be one of the Pozzolana brothers. Not even Tom's China clients had the b.a.l.l.s to call this late.

"Are they kidding?" Tom asked, then flicked the Tiffany lamp. Shards of colored gla.s.s ignited like a rainbow. "You've got to quit. Start your own business. You paid your dues with those people."

Half the office had shown up at the funeral three days ago. Even Mortimer had put in an appearance. But by now, he and Randolph probably thought her mourning period was over. They wanted her back at her desk.

She flopped onto her back. The ceiling was cracked, which she'd just now noticed. Wishbone-shaped. She winced, and resisted the temptation to make the only wish that mattered.

"They're not kidding; they're just idiots," she said, then remembered that the receiver was off the hook-they might hear her. "Gaaaa," she muttered as she picked it up, then asked, "h.e.l.lo?"

No one answered on the other line. But she could hear someone's breath. The sound was distant, as if the speaker on the other end was holding the phone at arm's length.

"I can't sleep anyway," Tom said as he sat up beside her. "All these flowers are killing my allergies. I wish they'd just send cards."

Jill squeezed Tom's thigh to silence him. He squeezed back, to be cute. "h.e.l.lo?" she asked again. More breathing. It sounded further away than before.

"Julian?" she asked, still half-asleep. Next to her, Tom stiffened. It wasn't him; she knew it wasn't Julian. But how could she wonder, and not ask?

When he died, they'd both been at work, and the homecare nurse had been drinking coffee in the kitchen. Her last words to him that morning: a caricature of tough love. Teary-eyed and panicked, he'd asked her whether she believed in an afterlife. It had hit her then, though she should have understood as soon as the doctors gave up on the chemo: her son was going to die.

Shut up and stop worrying, she'd told him. she'd told him. You've got to be brave and face this fighting, or you'll never get any better. You've got to be brave and face this fighting, or you'll never get any better. She'd hated him for just a moment, for having been born, and leading her to this moment of failure as a mother, for not having kept him safe. She'd hated him for just a moment, for having been born, and leading her to this moment of failure as a mother, for not having kept him safe.