Suspenseful Tales Part 11

I had always been close to my mother. In the few months that I had been away from home, thanks to daily phone calls, my mother and I had grown closer than ever. I told her about virtually everything in my new life. Seeing the strangely familiar house on Common Avenue was no exception.

I was also counting on Mom to give me some insight. The house fell into the category of Strange Stuff, and Mom had become a self-taught expert on Strange Stuff: ESP, psychic predictions, astrology, tarot cards, guardian angels, ghosts, haunted houses. She learned what she knew from books, the Interneta"and most of all, she insisted, personal experience. Her deep interest in the occult seemed odd to me, but harmless. My own interest was limited to horror flicks and the occasional Stephen King novel.

"Hey, Rick," Mom said, her voice perky as usual whenever I called. "How're you doing?"

"To be honest, I'm confused," I said. "I saw something on the way home that I can't explain."

A thoughtful pause. Then: "What was it?"

I told her everything about the house. Being able to relate the story to someone else relaxed me.

"Oh, yes, that's very strange," Mom said when I had finished. "Disturbing, too."

"How so?" I said.

"Don't play dumb, Rick," she said. "You know what I mean."

I did know what she meant. But I had been unwilling to raise the subject.

"I don't like to talk about what happened to Grandma," I said. "And I don't see how it has anything to do with what I saw today."

"The connection between the houses is obvious," she said. "But you're denying it."

"You've lost me," I said. "You've went way deep into this, and I'm still paddling around the surface. Enlighten me."

"Do you believe in ghosts, Rick?"

"I've never seen a ghost."

"But do you believe in them?"

"You think I saw a ghost, Mom? I saw a house. Ghosts haunt houses. Houses aren't ghosts, and houses don't haunt people."

"A ghost can be anything," she said. "A house, a car, a person. It depends upon why the ghost is conjured."

I sighed. "Where do you get this stuff from?"

"Maybe a ghost is summoned because its spirit needs to be released. Or maybe the ghost is conjured by a living person, who needs to release something from within himself. A person can invoke a ghost with his own subconscious feelings."

"You think I called up this house from the spirit world?" I said.

"You spent some of the most important years of your life in that house," she said. "You practically grew up there. And your Grandma was like your second mother. The house and the people who lived there are special to you."

"It's the same for you," I said. "But you haven't mentioned seeing the house appear again, out of nowhere, have you?"

"I'm not the one who moved away from home, Rick."

"I don't think something like this happens to everyone who moves away from home."

"Not everyone's grandmother dies in a fire three months after they move away from home. Admit it, honey. There are unique circ.u.mstances here."

"I still don't know what you're trying to say," I said, knowing that I was lying, knowing that Mom would sense my lie, but knowing that I had to lie because to be honest was too upsetting.

Every day, I tried to tell myself that I had not done anything wrong. After I moved to Atlanta, I had called Grandma at least twice a week, to check on her and make sure she was doing okay. It wasn't as if I had moved away and forgotten about her. I tried to use that argument to console myself, but it didn't help. Mom understood the true source of the problem.

She went on: "You blame yourself for what happened to Grandma, but you shouldn't. It was an accident. You couldn't be there to save her from everything. You have the right to move away, to go out on your own and build your own life. That's what being an adult is all about. No one blames you. You should stop blaming yourself."

"What does me blaming myselfa"and yeah, maybe sometimes I doa"have to do with me seeing this house today?"

"You're going to have to make that connection yourself, Rick. I think you already understand. You only have to accept it."

"I hear what you're saying," I said. "But I don't buy it. Anyone who would conjure his own ghosta"as if that's possible, anywaya"belongs in an inst.i.tution. That's like talking to the walls or something."

Mom chuckled. That was one thing I loved about her. She had strong beliefs, but she didn't take herself too seriously.

"Just think about it," she said. "Be honest with yourself. Don't walk away until you've faced the truth."

"There's no way I could walk away from this yet," I said. "Even though it's probably coincidence, I'm just too curious to lay it to rest."

"That's how it always starts," she said, with satisfaction, as though, in spite of my resistance to accepting her theory, I had proved an important point.

I hung up.

Although Mom thought I had witnessed a ghost, my take on the mystery was more straightforward. Yes, the house did have amazinga"even incrediblea"similarities to the house I remembered. But once you got down to it, it had to be a regular house, with a flesh-and-blood person living there. All I needed to do was to find out the resident's ident.i.ty, and I would be on my way to solving the puzzle.

I grabbed the Yellow Pages.

I had decided to call the Cobb County tax a.s.sessor's office. The ident.i.ty of a property owner was a matter of public record. Within minutes, I should be able to learn who owned the residence at 2118 Common Avenue. Then, armed with a name, I could plunge into a more detailed investigation, if I so desired. I just needed to know, more than anything, that a real, living person owned the house.

I punched in the phone number. After the third ring, a recorded voice spoke: "Thank you for calling the Cobb County Tax a.s.sessor's Office. Our offices are now closed. Normal business hours area""

Cursing softly, I hung up. Of course, the office was closed. It was past eight o'clock in the evening.

I'll call them tomorrow morning, I thought. It's not a big deal, anyway. I only want to satisfy my curiosity.

Then I asked myself: why should I bother to inquire about the house at all? Did it really matter? I didn't live there. I lived in this apartment, and Grandma, of course, didn't live anywhere on this earth any more. Why stir up painful memories for the sake of satisfying my curiosity?

My stomach growled. Glad to be distracted from my thoughts about the strange house, I went into the kitchen and grabbed a frozen pizza from the refrigerator.

While the pizza baked in the oven, I unwrapped that day's newspaper and sat at the dinette table to read. But the paper might as well have been written in Sanskrit. I could not concentrate.

In my mind's eye, I kept seeing the front windows of that house, Venetian blinds parted, and someone watching me through the slats.

No, I imagined that. It was getting dark, and I couldn't see clearly. It's all in my head.

I desperately wanted to believe the voice of doubt. I wanted to chalk up the entire experiencea"the spectacle in the window, the house itselfa"to imagination. But another part of me, maybe my conscience, that part of me that compels me to be truthful, would not let me swallow those self-comforting lies. The truth was a big, throat-busting pill, and I was going to have to swallow it.

Someone was in the window watching me. But who? A ghost?

Could the entire house be a ghost, as Mom believed? Summoned by some mysterious power, for some equally mysterious purpose?

Was I going nuts?

Suddenly, the phone rang.

On the second ring, I picked it up.

"h.e.l.lo?" I said.

No response. Soft static crackled from the handset, as if it were a long distance call with a bad connection.

"h.e.l.lo?" I said. "Is anyone there?"

Amidst the static, I detected a voice; it was barely more than a whisper, too soft for me to identify the caller by name or gender.

"h.e.l.lo?"

The static ceased. Silence as thick as syrup seeped from the phone.

"Is anyone there?" I said. By then, in a normal situation, I would have hung up. But so much weird stuff had been happening that it was easy to believe a simple phone call might be another piece of this unfolding mystery.

Another noise. Struggling to hear, I pressed the handset to my ear so tightly that the plastic felt fused to my eardrum.

I heard voices in the background, faintly. There was something familiar about them ...

I closed my eyes. Listened.

The voices grew louder. When I recognized the ident.i.ties of the people speaking, my eyes snapped open.

I heard myself. And Grandma. Having a conversation we'd had only a week before I moved away from home.

It was impossible, but I was not imagining this, and I was not dreaming. It was as real as any discussion I'd ever overheard on a telephone.

The ghostly voices floated from the handset: I don't understand why you gotta leave home, Rick. Your family is here, all your friends are here. You go down to Atlanta, and you're gonna be all alone.

I'm sick of living here, Grandma. I don't want to be like everyone else. Born here, live here, die here. I want to experience something new.

That's what vacations are for. Travel somewhere new for a little while, then come home. You don't have to move.

Yes, I do have to move. There's nothing here for me any more. Your family is here. Ain 't that enough?

That's what vacations are for. After I move to Atlanta, I'm going to come back to visit sometimes, Grandma. And I'll call.

You're gonna get down there and forget all about us. Come on. You know I won't do that.

Atlanta ain't a perfect place, Rick. Don't go there thinking everything is gonna be perfect.

I don't expect it to be perfect. No city is perfect. But I'll enjoy it.

You're deserting me. What am I gonna do without you?

You've got the rest of the family here. You won't be alone.

Do you know that I've never lived by myself?

Yeah, I know.

I can't live in this big house all alone. Maybe you'll find someone to move in with you. Oh sure, maybe I should get married again, right? A chuckle. Then: If you want to, Grandma.

I'm just kidding, boy. Any man I'd marry at my age is likely to die before I do.

Well, you know that women usually live longer than men.

I've never lived alone. What if something happens to me?

Nothing is going to happen to you, Grandma. Everyone in the family's going to be here for you. You'll be fine ...

The voices faded into silence. Static crackled over the line again. Then, the connection was broken.

I blinked. My vision was blurry with tears. I wiped my eyes furiously.

What in the h.e.l.l was happening? Had I really unleashed something in the spirit world, just to haunt myself? To torture myself with guilt?

I slammed the phone onto the table.

"Nothing is going to happen to you, Grandma," I said aloud, mimicking myself. "You'll be fine."

Regardless of her theories about ghosts, Mom was right about one thing: I was in denial. The truth was, I did blame myself for the fire that had consumed Grandma's life. If I hadn't been so stubborn, so G.o.dd.a.m.n set on living my own life and moving a thousand miles away from home, if I had just stayed home with her, the fire never would have happened, she would still be alive. It was my fault.

I might as well have twisted on the gas burner myself.

I cradled my head in my arms. My skull pounded like a giant ba.s.s drum.

My eyes were closed, but I kept seeing the images from my nightmare, in brilliant color: Grandma waving at me, then turning to walk into the blazing house.

Nothing is going to happen to you, Grandma. You'll be fine.

Before I realized what I was doing, I bolted upright, grabbed my car keys, and slammed out of the apartment. Raced to my car. Gunned the engine. Roared out of the parking lot. Halfway there, I admitted to myself where I was going. I was going back to that house on Common Avenue. Going home.

I pulled into the driveway of the residence at 2118 Common Avenue. I parked in front of the garage.