Writer in Training

It started as many things do: with coffee. The bittersweet scalding liquid rolling over the tongue, warmer than outside could ever hope to be. It started with the parting of soft lips into a smile, all shining teeth and mirth-filled eyes glowing like a crackling fireplace in a way that could only ever be sincere.

It started with a chance encounter. Bustling streets with strangers huddled into their jackets, hidden underneath thick wool scarves racing against time to get to the bus, to the subway, to their cars, to their homes. It started with a slight jostling, an accidental bump. Mumbled apologies transmitted through frozen clouds of breath. Rosy, wind-whipped cheeks and fluttering eyelashes barely seen through a flurry of long hair.  

It started with books. The oppressive silence of such a large building broken only by the occasional cough or sniffle, the turning of pages, the reverent running of fingers over spines of well-worn stories. It started with the discovery of an old favorite, with wild hand gestures and an obvious delight that was absolutely contagious, that couldn’t help but be received with equal excitement.

It started with the sunset. The golden rays bouncing off of disorderly curls as the lights of the city flickered on one by one until they could rival the sun itself. It started with closed eyes, a smattering of freckles, head tilted up to revel in the dying sun’s last rays of heat. Sitting on the rusty hood of a junked car looking utterly at peace with the world.

It started with a song. The booming bass of a tune nestling its way into a chest, into a pair of lungs, into a life itself. It started with flashes of blue, purple, orange light reflecting off of sweat-glistened skin. Mini hurricanes of flailing limbs controlled by bodies swaying to the heartbeat of an entire room. A voice hoarse from singing, from screaming, from laughing, head thrown back triumphantly while challenging life to do its worst.

I couldn't visit the land until many months later. In between taking care of my pregnant wife and working long hours at the office, I didn't have the time. Or the money either, for that manner.

One night, a few months after my grandfather had passed, my wife had insisted on my going to look at the estate.

“Well,” she figured, “you should do it before the baby is born so we don't have to travel with him. And if you don't like the property, we could always sell it and put the money into savings. It would help.” She says, absentmindedly running her hand over her round belly. After much planning and getting numerous affirmations from her, I decided to go.

The flight was long, the tickets costly. The surly man seated next to me fell asleep while leaning on my shoulder. Twice. A baby whined and carried on incessantly while their mother cooed at them in an attempt to soothe them back to sleep. Nothing unusual.

Once we landed I called my wife and talked to her at length, promising to take plenty of pictures and that I would call her every day. I exited the airport and hailed a cab. We sped off, grape orchards and olive trees whizzing past quickly.

The property itself wasn't much. The grass had not been trimmed in quite some time now and so it came up far past my hip.

The house was barely visible through all the foliage, but what I could make it was disappointing. It must have been grand at some point, with a large sloping roof and grand veranda. However, the house had fallen into disrepair. The wood looks green with rot and when I placed my full weight on the stairs leading up to the veranda floor, they collapsed beneath me. Somehow though, I managed to make it all the way to the front door and, against my better judgment, I stepped inside.

The floorboard reeked of decay and mildew. The yellowed paint was peeling off of the walls and a thin layer of dust seemed to cover every available surface. I sigh.

“Couldn't I have gotten a valuable heirloom,” I think to myself, stifling a frustrated groan. I probably couldn't even sell the place if I wanted to.

Goosebumps raise on my arm, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. It felt as if I was being watched although I knew there couldn't possibly be anyone around. A low, keening moan sounded throughout the house.

“Amontillado?” The ghastly voice calls. Fear glues my feet to the ground.

A ghostly figure, a figure of a man in chains, appears before me.

“Amontillado?” He asks again, bloodshot eyes locking onto my own.

I open my mouth to respond, but my voice fails me.

The ghost, eyes glinting with what seems to be recognition, begins to howl. “Montressor!” He accuses.

“I-I have no idea who that is,” I croak out, scrambling backward until my back is to the rough surface door.

“Do not think of me as a fool, Montessor. I know the face of the man who wronged me!”

Without taking my eyes from the apparition, my hand roves frantically over the door in order to find the knob. Once I find it, I try turning the handle but it seems like it's rusted shut. The spirit glides closer and closer until we come face to face. His breaths are harsh, ragged with fury but they don't even ruffle my hair. All I feel is cold, cold, and colder.

“For the love of God!” I shout, begging for mercy.

“Yes,” he replies slowly with a malevolent grin, chains clanging, “for the love of God.”

The apartment is pitch black. I fumble with the light switch with my free hand, simultaneously closing the door with my foot. The lights flicker on and I rush over to set the bags on the counter that separate my kitchen from my living space. I put them there, rubbing my arms where the plastic had left imprints. I’d put them away later.

A sudden realization hits me. My dog, Nala, hadn’t greeted me at the door. She was always right there when I came home, yapping excitedly and dropping one of her toys at my feet. There was no way she had gotten out when I opened the door. So where could she be?

“Nala?” I call loudly into the apartment. The pitter patter of her paws on the floor that usually precedes her actual presence was nowhere to be heard.

“That’s really weird. Maybe she’s hiding in my room?”

I hear static coming from my room as I walk over and the light is on. I could’ve sworn I turned off my tv I left, and I know for a fact that I turned the light off.

“Nala?” I call again, quietly this time as I cautiously approach my door. I push it open and see Nala sitting on my bed, her stark black fur reflecting the light from the television. She’s not alone.

Sitting next to her on the bed, his legs crisscrossed underneath him, is my boyfriend. He’s calmly eating cereal out of his favorite cereal bowl, shoving the flakes into his mouth handfuls at a time. All of this would be perfectly fine, normal even if it wasn’t for one thing.

His family and I had had his funeral over 3 months ago.

Yet here he is, alive as ever.

“James?” I whisper hoarsely, my voice barely a whisper.

His gaze shifts over to me, those bright green eyes flashing mischievously just like they used to.

“We’re out of cereal. And milk. Quite frankly, we’re out of everything,” he says unapologetically, as small smirk gracing his face.

I lean heavily against the doorframe to keep from crumbling onto the floor.

“B-but you’re…..”

“Dead?” He asks in a way that makes it seem less like a question and more like a fact.

He runs a hair through his shaggy hair and exhales slowly, like he used to do before explaining something complicated “Yeah, about that….”

He stands from the bed and motions me closer.