Static

The things we do may come back to haunt us, but it’s the things we don’t have the courage to do that tear us apart in the end.

It’s February and the early afternoon sunlight casts a slanting shadow to everything, making the hour seem much later. The parking lot of the Midway hotel is nothing but a double row of painted yellow lines that flake and peel some ten feet from the road. The only car here, besides mine, is a rusted-out Beretta on blocks.

Around the hotel, the brown of dead weeds and trees flows into the off-white and gray of old houses marred by the passage of countless coal trains. In fact, the whole place still smells like coal and used motor oil—scents carried on the wind from back-yard junk heaps and decaying coal cars on tracks that no longer lead anywhere.

A curtain moves in a window across the street; it’s a sign of life or what passes for it here. This town died when the mines shut down. Now, it’s nothing but decaying houses, stripped wastes, gaping ravines, and the mechanical dinosaurs left behind by a passing industry. Nature is slowly reclaiming the land, adapting it all into a hybrid of organic growth and rust—some kind of unknown postindustrial flora. New life, twisted and ugly, lives in the forgotten places.

The nearest city with any amenities is fifty miles away, where I live. Every time I come back to this town, it feels like I’m trespassing in a graveyard.

I turn back to the Midway. Its light-tan bricks are caught by the dirty gold of the sun, revealing the dried tears of black corrosion that track down from the windows. On the second floor, a shadow moves in the dark behind the window. That is her room, and she is waiting for me.

The front door is never locked. I pick my way across a lobby littered with the detritus of squatters and the wreckage of old furniture. A year ago this place was still alive, though dying a slow death like the rest of the town.

Graffiti lines the walls like arcane scribbling and the whole place smells old and stale. I am the only living person in the Midway, yet the faint sound of a TV drifts from the floor above.

I stare at the roses in my hand and once again wonder what the hell I’m doing. Every time I come here there’s a brief moment, a second or two, when I try to stop myself. It never works though. The scent of her perfume filters down through the dust and draws me on. I feel the tension of her waiting. It’s like a static charge in the air.

I creep up the stairs to the second floor where cheap paisley wallpaper, put up in the 70s, hangs in tatters. Broken wall sconces dangle by frayed electrical wiring. The vandals have made their mark and moved on.

It’s room seventeen that I’m looking for, and I know just where it is. Walking down the hall, I pass other rooms and glance in. All wreckage.

She stayed here because it was cheaper than renting if she did “favors” for the owner. The Midway was a shit hole. She hadn’t been out of room seventeen in a week. Then there was the smell, and finally, the cops. They said the TV was still on, tuned to nothing, like she’d been watching the static snow.

The guy who owned this place just packed up and moved on after they found her. He left the furnishings, appliances, everything.

The sound of the TV and the smell of her perfume grow stronger as I reach the shadows at the end of the hall. Room seventeen. I knock.

“Come in,” she says. I open the door and step into the illusion.

The room is decorated in warm ambers and earthy browns. Golden stars dance in the air where the sunlight streams in through the windows. There is no wreckage here. Flowers I brought on previous visits line the dressers, the nightstand, and the top of the TV.

Jenna sits on the bed watching music videos. A small part of my mind recalls that that is impossible—there’s no electricity here and the TV isn’t even plugged in. The world flickers dark for a moment but then I see her dress. She’s wearing the blue velvet one that goes all the way down to her ankles but is slit up to her knee. Her back is to me, as if she hasn’t realized I’m here. She crosses her legs and I catch a glimpse of her firm, smooth calves and her stiletto heels.

Her brown hair cascades down her back as she casually shifts her head. The round tip of her ear pokes out. I can see the pout of her lips. She stretches, the muscles in her shoulders straining.

There’s a voice in my head. It says, “Don’t do this.” Like I said before, it never works.

I slip onto the bed next to her and slide my arms around her from behind, offering the flowers. She feigns surprise.

“Aaron!” she squeals as she turns in my arms. All the girlish beauty that I remember is there: the sparkle of her eyes, the color of her skin, her smile.

“Hey, babe,” I whisper.

“I’ve been waiting for you. Do you like my dress?”

“It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

She smiles shyly and gets up, carrying the roses to an empty spot on a dresser. She puts the flowers in the vase there. I don’t remember seeing it when I came in. Things are like that here.

Jenna turns, the dress clinging to the contours of her body. She smiles. “You always bring me the prettiest flowers.”

My smile falters. This isn’t right. I light a cigarette and smoke silently on the edge of the bed.

“What’s wrong?” She sits behind me and wraps her arms around my chest.

“Nothing. Long week,” I lie.

“Hm. Poor Aaron. I’m glad you came to see me,” she breathes in my ear. She takes the cigarette from my hand and stubs it out in the ashtray. Her hands pull me down to the bed.

We move under the golden light, under the dancing stars. Our hands and bodies lock together. Our voices call out for each other. We lay together in the scent of perfume and roses.

A heavy weariness washes over me as Jenna lies next to me and traces circles on my chest with her finger. It’s a fatigue I can’t fight. As I spiral down the pit into unconsciousness, her body becomes cold beside me. Her finger is like ice on my chest.

“Stay with me, Aaron,” she says.

When I awaken, it’s dark. The sun has slipped low in the sky, casting dark blue shadows across the room. The TV shows static and the sound is almost deafening. The room is cold. Jenna is gone.

I get dressed and check my watch. Five thirty. Every time, I wake up later and later. I tie my shoes and that’s when I feel it; it’s a cold fear in the pit of my stomach. There is something growing in this room, a malevolence coalescing in the gyrating shadows of the static light. There is no smell of perfume; the roses seem to have wilted. The air is stretched tight like something is trying to break through. I felt it last time. It wasn’t this bad, though, not this strong.

There is something under the bed. I hear it scratching.

I open the door and leave. As it closes, something slides across the floor behind me.

Running now, down the hall to the stairs, cold terror pumping in my veins. Vaulting down the stairs, I’m sure something is about to reach out, grab me by the neck, and pull me screaming into the shadows. There is a sentience to the anger following me, a desire. I hurdle the broken furniture in the lobby and slam out through the door to the parking lot.

Whatever it is stops in the lobby. Out here, I don’t feel it. I feel free and safe. I put my hands on my knees and just breathe for a while, avoiding looking into the shadows of the Midway.

I get in the car and drive home.

***

This is the ritual: on Saturdays, I wake up crying; I shave, shower, gel my hair, and put on cologne; I drive to the florist’s and buy a twenty-five dollar bouquet of roses; and then I drive the fifty miles to the Midway. The rest of the week, I don’t give a shit how I look. The rest of the week is endured for the sake of Saturday…and Jenna.

I don’t know how I got the idea. Maybe it was curiosity growing in the back of my mind. Maybe it was the desire to see the place where she died, to try and catch one last semblance of her. I started going the week after the Midway closed.

I remember creeping down the hall that first time, baffled by the sound of the TV. Was it some transient, some homeless or bored kids defiling her room?

No. There she sat, full of life and not the ruined thing that had occupied her coffin at the viewing. She said my name and smiled. I fell on my knees weeping. She pressed herself to me and I felt her, warm and alive, under my hands.

The year rolled on and I had to control myself, force myself to limit my visits to Saturdays. I knew what we were doing…what I was doing…violated some unspoken law of nature or God.

I know, even now, that what I’m doing is wrong. I get ready and go anyway. If I leave earlier, maybe that thing won’t happen again.

“I need this,” I tell myself as I climb the stairs in the Midway. “She needs this. She needs me.”

My head is a swirl of chaos. The world is a hazy dream and this has become my reality: room seventeen. Nothing else is real.

She is there. The sun turns her hair to a wreath of auburn flame, her eyes to pools of jade. She takes the flowers again and leans me against the door until it shuts. I feel her heart beating, my heart hammering and pulse pounding. This vision of her owns me.

“Stay with me, Aaron,” she whispers as she wraps her arms around me.

When my eyes open again, I know I’ve slept longer than before. There is no light save for that cast by the static snow of a nonexistent channel on a TV that shouldn’t work.

The feeling is back—the angry, foreboding tightness of the air. It’s so ominous and focused that I throw my clothes on and step to the door. Too late.

Something slides across the floor, skittering to a stop behind me. The chill it gives off stings my ankles as I turn to look. There is a box that has been cast out from under the bed. That’s the only place that it could have come from.

It’s a small box, five-by-seven inches, dark wood. I bend down to touch it. It’s so cold that there is frost on the tiny brass latch.

A long, mournful sob emanates from under the bed. My head snaps up. Beneath the frame is darkness, but there is a deeper shadow within it that swirls and coalesces. It begins to roll out like black fog and I run.

Out in the parking lot, I collapse and huddle against the car. I only remember still-shot images of the hall and lobby as I fled. Eyes wide open, I can’t remember if I’m breathing or not. There’s no sound. I just shake for a while before rational thought returns and I get the idea to go home. Finally, I hear the wind and the lonely howl of a semi on a far off highway.

I climb into the car, not looking at the second-story window. I feel like someone’s watching me the whole way home.

***

Look up “fool” in the dictionary. You’ll see a picture of me. It’s Saturday, again. I’m parked in the lot of the Midway…again.

The sun cuts the cold somewhat and heats the interior of the car. The odor of the roses mixes with the smell of cigarette smoke as I sit staring at the Midway’s entrance. I’ve been here for two hours.

She’s waiting. Does she wonder where I am? Does she exist when I’m not there? What is it that waits for me in the dark?

This time, I’ve got a plan: a small travel alarm clock that folds up and fits in the pocket of my jacket. I tested it; it’s very loud. It’s set for three this afternoon. The clock on the dash reads twelve.

Today, I will say goodbye. This has gone on too long. My life has become a collage of phantasmal images and I can no longer tell what’s real. I don’t sleep anymore. Not in my own bed at least. I just lay awake and think of her.

The time ticks by…an hour…two hours. Am I scared, or just unwilling to give her up? It’s time to end this. I get out of the car and go in.

Jenna opens the door before I even touch the knob. She seems confused, the kind of confusion heralding anger that she used to display in life. I wonder if she even knows she’s dead.

“I was worried. I thought you wouldn’t come.” She opens the door wider for me and smiles as I hand her the roses.

She sits on the bed and pats the spot next to her. “Come here,” she says.

I don’t. I stand by the door, my jaw working to force out the words I need to say.

I’m not staying. I won’t need the alarm clock because…I can’t give in to that desire again. It will just make things worse.

“Jenna,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “I’m going. I….”

Somehow, she’s no longer on the bed. She’s next to me, pulling at my arm.

“What? No!” She clamps me in an embrace, staring into my eyes and trying to force my arms around her.

“Look. Stop it!” I try to pry her off of me, but she won’t let go. “Damn it, Jenna!”

Her mouth is against my ear. “Please, please, please. Don’t go. Don’t!” Her soft voice cracks. Her hands reach under my shirt, clutching at me like she needs to feel someone alive and real. Her fingernails break the skin.

“Jenna!” I shove her away. She puts herself between the door and me.

“You can’t go,” she pleads.

“This isn’t right. I mean…Jesus!”

“I’ll make it better!” She steps towards me. “I’ll make everything right.” She’s backing me towards the bed, slipping her dress down.

“I…we can’t!” I sit down as her dress falls to the floor. Her beauty isn’t real. I bury my face in my hands. The only sound is the music from the TV. None of this is real.

She’s naked in front of me…against me. I smell her. Her hand drifts down to my shoulder and I can take no more.

“You’re dead!” I scream. I stand up and yell into her face, “Dead!”

She backs away, shaking her head, covering herself with her hands. The room flickers—a brief image of ruin. The TV switches to snow.

She’s still shaking her head, like maybe she’s known all along but couldn’t or wouldn’t admit it.

“And I’m…Christ, I’m sick!” I admit. “I don’t know if I’m really seeing you…feeling you.”

Her eyes are wide with anger. She shakes, turning paler, unnatural. Black veins rise to the surface of her skin.

I don’t like this. I step towards her, towards the door.

“You’re staying, Aaron. With me.”

“Jenna….”

She shrieks; it’s an inhuman rending of the air, severing the boundaries between worlds.

The sunlight in the room dies. It feels like the floor drops out, like I’m falling. I have no control. Weighed down by the heavy dark, I tumble back on the bed.

I’m not asleep yet, but I can’t move. I can’t see Jenna, just shadows dancing on the ceiling. The hiss of the static laughs at me.

I feel myself slipping away. The room seems to be sinking, slowly twisting downward. My eyelids lower as my limbs go numb.

I’m almost gone when the alarm goes off. The clock squeals from my pocket, pulling me back. I’ve never been so glad to hear that sound. The years of behavioral programming by a small LCD clock pay off. My arms and legs start to obey.

I sit upright. Jenna’s gone. I force myself off the bed and lurch toward the door. The hell with this.

The box is already on the floor, waiting to trip me. My foot skids on it and I fall on my back. My head is inches away from the space under the bed. The cold, black cloud creeps out, stretching long fingers towards me. I roll away, knocking the box open as I flail. Its contents spill out into the air.

Framed, for a moment in the static light: a one-foot length of thin surgical tubing, a hypodermic syringe, a scattering of needles, a charred spoon, a disposable lighter, and a small bag of brownish-white powder. They seem to hover forever, mocking me, accusing me, burning into my eyes. They unlock what I have hidden from myself.

The last time I saw Jenna alive—or what passed for it—she was a walking skeleton. I had abandoned her months before that, left her to her addiction. But one day she came to see me. The flesh of her face hung like a mask on her skull. She no longer had the drive to keep herself clean. Her eyes were dull, glassy, and only seemed to light up when she spotted me. God, what I saw in those eyes—a cry for help, hope, the possibility of escape from a living death she couldn’t break.

She horrified me. Disgusted, I turned and walked away, never looking back. And for that, I will never forgive myself. She died the next week.

Now, the instruments of her destruction dancing before me confirm my failure as a lover, friend, and human being. They clatter to the floor.

The illusion is stripped away. The room is in ruins, showing its true appearance. The paint is cracked and peeling. Dead roses litter the floor.

There is a retching from under the bed, the sound of violent illness from a strained throat. She crawls in the darkness down there, slowly emerging from the black mist. A dead, white hand scratches at the threadbare carpet.

Her nightmarish image jerks awkwardly in the gloom. Her wasted face is twisted in an open-mouthed grimace of pain and rage. She has no eyes, only black pits that fix on me with hungry vengeance.

My feet kick out mindlessly, propelling me away from her. Even after I impact with the closed door, they continue to try to push me out into the hall.

I’m vaguely aware that I’m screaming. I go on until there’s no more air in my lungs and I start to make small panting, animal noises.

Jenna’s out from under the bed where the cops found her curled up and lifeless. She’s wearing the same frayed flannel shirt and stained, filthy underwear. The stench of shit and vomit and death precedes her.

She wails like an angry cat as she reaches for the hypodermic. She holds it up like a priest raising the Eucharist and fits a needle into place.

I’m not sentient anymore, watching through fingers held up to my face. There is no longer the capacity to think about running. There is only numb, raw terror. I watch, recording her every movement as it’s seared into my brain.

Her shirt falls open revealing atrophied muscles, a ribcage and breastbone covered by the thinnest skin.

She pulls up her shirtsleeve, showing me the scabrous, weeping tracks on her arm. As she jams the needle in, she looks at me and shudders. A viscous string of drool trails from her mouth.

Jenna draws the black corruption that has replaced her blood into the hypo. She holds it out between us.

“Be with me,” she croaks. “Please, Aaron. It’s so lonely here, so cold.”

“Christ…” I sob. A dark sense returns to me and, for a moment, I want it. I want her to hold me down and inject her death into me as she traces my neck with her cold, dead tongue.

I’m close to Hell right now. This is her Hell, what I consigned her to.

“No!” I

shout. “No! I didn’t do this to you! I told you to stay away from that shit!”

“You left me to die.”

“I couldn’t stand to see what you were doing to yourself!”

“I’ll make it right. We can be together forever.” She crawls to me, hovering over me with the needle. Her reality is terrible.

Images of her in life flash through my mind—her joy, her smile, her laugh. All gone. I will never see these things again. I’ll never see the real Jenna again. Horror gives way to rage, and something within me screams to let it out.

I grab her wrist and feel the bones beneath her waxy skin. What happens next is almost as bad as what has come before. I begin to laugh. It’s the sound of it, though—high pitched shrieks of hysteria. Jenna pauses.

“Did I hurt you when I walked away?” Defiant tears roll down my cheeks. “Good! Fuck you!”

She hisses at me, her voice joining the sound of the television. I rise up to my knees, her wrist still caught in my grip. I don’t care if I live or die now, but I will make her hear me.

“You already killed me the first time I saw you stick that needle in your arm. I walked away, but how much was I supposed to take? You left me with nothing! You OD’d! You took everything from me! I’m the one that has to live every endless fucking day held together by broken memories!” I grab the bag of heroin and shake it at her. “I have to live knowing that you chose this over me!”

Some sense of realization dawns on her grotesque face. I stand and shove her back. I’m crying like a child, but not out of fear. It’s out of sorrow for everything that happened. It’s out of loss because I know what I want is never coming back.

I see her there, kneeling on the floor, arms askew with the needle in her hand. Eternal hurt, perpetual confusion, and tainted innocence make her mask seem almost alive. This image of her is the symbol of all that has occurred in this room, the last moments of her life. This is what is left of Jenna.

“I couldn’t stop,” she whispers. Black tears creep down from her midnight eyes. “I needed someone to help me. I needed to know someone still loved me.”

I lean against the wall, balling my fists in my hair. There is nothing I can say. No words that can redeem my betrayal. I have only a small offering—a flickering light in an ocean of darkness.

“I still love you….”

I open the door, step into the hall, and close it behind me. I hear no sound from the room, not even the sound of the empty channel. And then, a small, fading whisper, “Aaron….”

***

I haven’t been back to the Midway. I take flowers to Jenna’s grave instead. I’ve decided to choose my ghosts now. I’ve kept the photos of her from a brighter day. These are the spirits I dwell with. I look at them every day and remember, forcing the darkness of room seventeen out of my head. These sunny pictures are all I have of her, but they are enough, and I live on.