one bloody thing after another . table of contents . about the creators
Chapter three One Month Earlier. -- Every day, in the front lobby of the retirement home, Mitchie got stuck in the corner. He got too excited, coming back from his walk, pulling at his leash, and every day Charlie said, "Careful, Mitchie. Watch where you're going." But poor blind Mitchie hobbled into that corner anyway. He was reliable like that. Every day, stuck in the corner. And every day, without fail, that woman would be standing on the other side of the glass door, her own severed head in her arms, watching them. Charlie opened the door, and gave Mitchie's leash a sharp tug. The fat little dog pulled back a bit, and then walked into the wall again. He tottered from foot to foot. The headless woman was still standing there, blocking the way, blood trickling. She was talking, and Charlie could see her lips moving, but no sound was coming out. When he was a younger man, maybe he could have read her lips a bit, but his eyesight wasn't so good anymore. He was getting tired of her anyway. He pulled at the leash again. "God damn it, Mitchie," Charlie said. "Come on, now." Mitchie got himself turned around, and he started toward Charlie, panting a bit. Each little step was an effort. He walked right past the door again, and Charlie had to give the leash another tug, to turn him in the right direction. They squeezed past the woman, and Charlie gritted his teeth against the cold where he brushed against her skin. He could feel her eyes looking up at him. "What do you think she wants today, Mitch?" Charlie asked the dog. They were in the elevator lobby now. "These spirits, they never give up, do they? What was it yesterday?" Charlie turned to the ghost. "Is it your email again? Are you having trouble getting your email?" The ghost took a shaking step toward them. She looked off balance, not that Charlie could blame her. She took another step, and then another. She was slow, and Mitchie sat down to wait and chew himself a bit. This was their afternoon ritual. The ghost led them down the long hallway. It stopped in front of Mrs. Richards' door, and waited. Room 135. Every day. Charlie knocked. The door opened, and there was Mrs. Richards, laundry basket in hand. "Charles," Mrs. Richards said. "That dog of yours was barking again last night." The ghost was staring up at her, its face expressionless. It lifted its head under one arm, and raised its other hand to point. Now, what did that mean? Every day. Knock on Mrs. Richards' door, and then what? The ghost just stood there, pointing, drooling black blood on the carpet. Charlie wanted to help her, but he had no idea how. What did she want? Mrs. Richards was always accusing Mitchie of barking, even though it had been years since the dog had been able to make a sound. But Charlie didn't mind. Some people just like to complain. Did the ghost want him to tell her something? Give her a message? "Do you know anyone who got their head cut off, Mrs. Richards?" "If you don't keep him quiet, I'll have to make a formal complaint, Charles," she said. "Honestly. The dog barks all night, and every afternoon you come knocking on my door. Oh hello Charles. How are you today? Can I help you? Oh, you just want to talk more about a headless ghost that follows you and that stupid dog of yours around? I guess I'll see you tomorrow. Well, you know what, Charles? I would prefer if I didn't see you tomorrow. Knock on somebody else's door tomorrow with your idiot dog." "He's not an idiot," Charlie said. But Mitchie was standing with his face pressed against the wall again. "Turn around and defend yourself, Mitchie, for the love of Christ." The ghost was still pointing a bloody finger in Mrs. Richards' face. What did it want? Who had time for this nonsense? Every stupid day. "I bet you killed her," Charlie said. "I bet when you were younger you murdered her and cut off her head, and now she's come back to expose you for the murderess you are." "Oh, you caught me," Mrs. Richards said. "You go call the police, and I'll try to get my laundry done and my affairs in order for when the police lock me up and throw away the key on the testimony of your pointing headless ghost." "That was very funny," Charlie said. Mitchie was still facing the wall. "Isn't she funny, Mitch? Maybe it was an accident about the girl dying. Maybe she heard one of Mrs. Richards' jokes, and she laughed her head off." "Goodbye Charles." Mrs. Richards closed the door. The ghost followed Mitchie and Charlie to the elevator, and stood there while they waited. The dead girl wasn't pretty. She had a weird face, which looked even weirder because it was completely expressionless. She kept talking the whole time they waited, her lips moving soundlessly, dark with blood. Charlie closed his eyes to wait. The elevator dinged and Mitchie started forward. Inside, Charlie pushed the button to close the doors. "No room, sorry," he said to the bloody, silent specter. It spoke again, moving its silent lips, and Charlie got a sick feeling in his stomach, watching the blood dribble out of her mouth. There were chunks of something in the dark blood, and her eyes were rolling back in her head. "Oh, walk it off," Charlie said to the ghost. The elevator doors closed. Mitchie was stuck in the corner again. Stupid little bastard. ONE BLOODY THING AFTER ANOTHER image copyright emily horne 2008. text copyright joey comeau 2008. |