The Dead Don’t Care
Part 2 — Maybe it didn’t see me here? standing in the darkness
In case you missed it, read Part 1
My roommate has already turned in by the time I get home. When you’re trying to be quiet, every sound you make is a crash or bang. I have to admit I’m bummed that Sarah isn’t around — the need of her dignified opinion compels me. She has a settling way about her. The way she tips her glasses down when she’s listening to some unusual aspect of my day (and I am always trying to describe something eclectic to her), and the way she ducks behind the lenses when she is done listening to my rants, it’s all so smart of her. She is so fastidious. Alas, the crack at the bottom of her bedroom door was dark and she does not appreciate being needlessly awakened, as I’ve been forewarned.
We had stayed for too long, talking at the pizza place. I kept thinking I needed to cut it off, but Dugan managed to eke out new points, on purpose, just to keep me from leaving.
“The thing is, she’s so well-preserved!” Dugan argued.
I shoot back, “Is that what you read in the brochure? ‘It’s as if she died just last week!’” I mock in my own sloppy, degenerate way. I knew my bedtime approached because I could feel my eyes starting to burn, and my already elusive patience, was waning. But I continue, “Let’s go dig up your grandma then! I don’t see the difference!”
“My grandma’s still alive — ”
“Oh,” I flushed. “Well… that’s good, I’m happy to hear that, Dugan.” Ugh.
“Haven’t you ever heard of the mummy’s curse?” My question invokes his guffaw. “I wouldn’t laugh if I were you…”
“Isn’t the curse for the guy who busts open the tomb, er — ”
“And the guy who goggles at the corpse!” I raise one savvy eyebrow at him. He just grins and shakes his head. For some reason I think that my awareness of the moral implications in the exploitation of a human body, a human child’s, might spare me the macabre repercussions, but as with Dugan, I cannot claim innocence.
When the bill comes, I try desperately to shove cash for my share at him, but he refuses. I opt not further compromise my dignity and let it go, while inscribing a mental reminder to decline future dinner dates.
He leans in to give me a hug; I offer a weak pat on the back. “I’ll see you tomorrow a’right?”
It took me a second. “Isn’t tomorrow your day off?”
“Yeh — I’m coming in to goggle… you know… at the dead girl.”
Without a Sarah to talk to, I wash my face and get into bed.
Perhaps it’s the excitement of a controversial exhibit, excessive sugar in the pizza sauce, or that glass of red I thought tasted funny. With the speed my thoughts are racing, I know sleep is impossible. Then I hear a noise that causes me to pop off my pillow. What was that? It sounds like a… a… a bang, or a crash, or a thud. Could somebody be busting through the door? I hold my breath to listen while my heart pounds its way out of my ribcage. I hate it when this happens. It’s probably nothing, or it’s most definitely an ingrate come to murder Sarah and me. If he doesn’t shoot us right away, there’s a chance we can fight him off. I reach for my baseball bat beside the bed. Swing low, I tell myself, and hard. I listen.
Nothing. I detect no movement beyond my bedroom walls. Very well, I lay back, breathing intentionally to slow my racing heartbeat. Now I do not know if I drift into dreamland; it’s hard to tell sometimes if you’re in or out, but soon I hear rattling in the next room, a flush of the toilet, a blub-blub of the faucet. Sarah must be up, I think. What time is it? Before I can look, I’ve leapt from my bed, aiming to meet her at the door. I intend to say, what exactly? I can’t sleep…? I throw open my bedroom door to reveal… well, it’s not a Sarah. Whatever it is sets my heart a-thwackin’ — an injurious, dark thing limping by. Its long hair hung like black ropes, swaying with the rhythm of each lumbering step. I saw it was covered in a stiff blanket or cloak, though too dark to make out colors. Through the shadows I watched as it began to slowly turn its head toward me; like it knew I was there. It showed me its gaping eye sockets, its cracked and sallow skin stretched across skull, a bent up mouth held agape, lips shriveled back revealing a full set of quivering chompers, protruding cheek bones, and a mashed-in nose. Wanting to run, yet paralyzed with fear that the thing might reach out to me, I didn’t budge, blurt, or breathe. It made not a sound, nor a rustle; it didn’t even give off an odor. It rounds its face straight ahead again and ambles out of view. Maybe it didn’t see me here? standing in the darkness. Was it coming back? Where can I go? It’s still out there!
I step back and swing the door to close it and thank god it doesn’t creak, while being careful to secure a latch by turning the knob, instead of just pushing it closed. Click! Oh no, it heard that, as I imagined it rushing toward my room and hurling itself through. Then I realize, there’s no lock on my door! Perfect! I pause to listen — I must’ve stood in front of the door for about five minutes before I started to feel ridiculous. Wishing I had a way to lock myself in, I got back into bed and, of course, bury myself in the bedding while I try to beat back the image of that creature from my mind. And I knew nobody is going to believe me.
And they didn’t! I wake to the sound of Sarah fixing her breakfast in the kitchen and instantly think, she’s made it through the night!
“You look unwell,” she said.
I chew my lip. “Say, did you, um…” I can’t think when she’s looking at me like this, so attentive and bright-eyed with her hair still wrapped up. She raises her brows with impatience. “So… I saw something crazy last night, but you obviously didn’t see it.”
“Well, maybe I did. What are we talking about?”
I sucked in air. “No forget it. You obviously didn’t see it — ” and I started out of the room.
“What?!” Sarah followed me out of the kitchen. She can’t resist when I’m aloof. Ha!
Turning to face her, I explained, “It was some kind of dead thing methinks — a walking dead thing.”
“Where?!”
“It came from the bathroom.”
“What?!” She starts for the bathroom. I hear her shove the shower curtain aside with force. Fearless, she was. “Not seeing any evidence of a dead thing in here!” At least she is willing to humor me.
“Yeah, I don’t know what it was doing in there, honestly. I heard it making some noise and I thought it was you, so I came out here and there it was, sort of stumbling out…”
Sarah seems more perturbed with the idea that I came out to talk to her in the middle of the night than the fact that I encountered a mysterious being in our apartment, and now that I think of it, I can see how weird it all seems.
“Whatsamatter? Couldn’t sleep?”
“I don’t know — ” I blather on with something nonsensical about making sure she was okay. “Coffee, I need coffee,” I say, snatching a cup from the cupboard. “It must’ve been a dream.”
Of course, I don’t believe that for a second. Somebody flushed the toilet! The thought of it gives me chills, it limping by, turning its head, looking at me. I am just glad it appears to be gone. I almost don’t want to go checking closets and crevices, which I do anyway in the most inconspicuous manner.
Dugan in street clothes makes me do a double-take. I stammer, “Well, you clean up well.”
“Thanks,” he says with his usual cheerfulness. “Everything okay?”
“We should talk — ”
We scurry to the freight elevator, where I describe my gruesome sighting while I fight off the urge to smack that irritating grin from his face.
“So you see,” I say, “I’m telling you I think it’s accursed. I don’t think you should go.”
He chuckles. “I already did. I was just coming to see if you’ve had lunch.”
But I’m not falling for the platonic request for a casual meal again, so I give him my most genuine, ‘oh darn, I can’t get away’, but Dugan isn’t buying it.
“I need to tell you about it over a bite.”
We were practically skipping along to the sandwich shop, me because I needed him to know that I did not consider this tryst as leisurely as the last, mostly since I did indeed have things to do at work, and he, who was just trying to keep up.
“When you go in, it’s all dark. If you want to see her, you have to flip a switch…”
I don’t know why he’s telling me this as I’m well aware and feel it’s the only part of the exhibit they did right. “Uh-huh,” I say, impatiently.
“Even with the light on, it’s still pretty dark and creepy in there.”
“You think that’s what they were going for? the creep factor?”
“No, I figured it was because they didn’t want her getting too much light exposure,” he turned to catch me giving fish-eye. “Are you messin’ with me?”
“Here we are!” I exclaim as we scuttle into the shop.
Despite a busy lunch hour, we manage to get a table next to a crowded one of ten or so very young-looking, very animated drama students. This turns out to be a good thing.
“So! I have to tell you! I went in and I’m standing in the galley area where the visitor is supposed to stand, and when I flip the light switch, I realize I’m standing right next to a lady, who was just standing there in the dark and I go, ‘Oh! I didn’t see you there!’ Then, totally unfazed, she looks at me, gestures toward the corpse, and goes, ‘Shhhh, the dead are sleeping.’ I go, ‘Right, sorry.’ Then she says to me, ‘Why do you think we’re here?’ — ” Queue the waitress.
I order egg salad on wheat, he pastrami on rye, and two waters, as the server scribbles and flutters away.
“Why are we here?” I repeat, bewildered.
“’Why do you think we’re here?’” Dugan corrects as his palm comes slamming down onto the table, causing the flatware to rattle and our waters to spill. “Die, you fly!” he snarls. Lifting his palm to check, he discovers it was a missed attempt.
“Well… what did you say to her?”
“I didn’t say anything. She was weird-looking, like a homeless person kinda, the way she was dressed and she carried a big bag. Her hair was grey and, like, Einsteinian.”
“How old was she?”
“There’s another one — ” Dugan ducks away from something in the air. “What the hell is going on? What’s with all these flies?”
His statement causes me to scan the air for flying insects. I don’t see any. “Dugan — ” His complexion is now flushed and he’s starting to sweat. The kids at the table beside us begin making loud proclamations from famous plays, speaking in foreign accents and waving their arms about. When my gaze goes back to Dugan, he’s staring intently at my shoulder.
“Don’t move,” he says. “There’s a fly on your shoulder and he’s dressed like George Washington.”
“Dude, are you okay?” It’s quite clear he’s not, but I don’t know what else to say. He reaches across the table and takes my hand in both of his, which are sweaty, whispering, “He says you’re a British spy. Are you?”
“A British spy?” Just then the server places our sandwich plates on the table; I pull my hand away. Now he’s taken with the sandwich before him. I lean in to get a better look at his face and notice the irises of his eyes have disappeared. Briefly he looks at me then back at his sandwich.
“My sandwich has a mustache,” he says to me, before looking down. “I don’t care! We’re friends; we’re just friends. She likes me!” This is when I realize Dugan is now having a defensive argument with his sandwich. He continues “Why didn’t I…oh! You shut up, you! It was a stressful day, okay!?…”
To my left a tall boy with long hair stands to project something Shakespearean and he looks like just the kind of guy who can help me, so while Dugan is getting ready to duke it out with his evidently-mustached pastrami sandwich, I don’t hesitate to signal The Bard of Avon.
“My heart is ever at your service, mademoiselle!”
Terrr-ific.
