On the same day he’d been released from prison after serving a full two-decade sentence, James drove at 70 MPH in his pickup truck towards home. He was nervous to drive any faster, for a decent number of reasons, but he still had a bed to get to, and he planned on getting there in the shortest amount of time he possibly could.
With one hand on the wheel and one holding his temples, he squeezed hard to eliminate the headache he was convinced would be the thing to make him crash instead of the speed. It disquieted him because he hadn’t had a headache in years. It was probably just the big change, he figured—the transition from everything being claustrophobic to everything being much, much too open.
James wouldn’t admit it, but he was afraid to go through town. He didn’t have the slightest idea just how different it would be from when he was incarcerated in ’98. Straight from the penitentiary, he had phoned an old friend to bring by his truck so he could leave it all behind forever. Now, he raced down the last county road that would bring him to his house which hadn’t been touched since the morning he left on that horrible day.
It was oddly dark as he continued to rub at his temples, squinting at the road lines flying by in a streaking blur. Various things started to become familiar, like the rusted “Road May Flood” sign and his empty beer cans on the side of the road that the town had never bothered to clean up. He was so very close to home. I’m coming, mattress. Almost there, baby.
The glow of the warm, orange lamppost on his front yard finally became visible in the distance, and he granted himself the grace to smile, just a tiny bit. But it was also at the same moment that he saw the figure in the weeds on the side of the road.
A smile had never fallen from James’s face quicker, a small yelp of terror escaping his lips as he frantically grasped the wheel with both hands and chucked it to the left a bit. He didn’t swerve, but it was enough of a wiggle at his high speed to make his organs do a quadruple backflip on top of the pounding dance his heart had executed at the sight of the figure staring at him as he passed by. What- who the hell was that?
James didn’t know whether to stop or keep going. He was almost home, so close. Before he could think too hard on it, he plunged his feet into the brake pedal and screeched to a stop, having to maneuver all his body weight to prevent from slamming into his own windshield. When everything outside stopped moving, he stared down at his lap, his knuckles white from grasping the wheel so hard. His chest expanded and contracted fiercely, finally realizing how panicked he truly was from the whole situation. All he could see in his mind was the person, thing… seemingly gawking at him drive by.
With his brights on, he hadn’t gotten the best look. But from what he had been able to tell, it was tall, light in complexion, and unmoving.
Body rattling from head to toe, he grabbed the ancient flashlight in his console, deciding to step outside the warm comfort of his truck and into the frigid early winter air of late December. It was rather tough on his bones and muscles—he refused to believe he had actually aged during his sentence. His boots whacked softly against the asphalt as he turned on the flashlight and, with his heart making a particularly rough thump against his ribs, shined it upward at the area where he’d seen the figure. It wasn’t there.
Unsure whether he was more distraught or relieved at the discovery, or lack thereof, he took a step back and casually lowered his flashlight. The contrast in light to dark drew his eyes to the asphalt, the swerve marks on the road he had just made. At the sight of the jagged curves, he was blasted back in time to his last day of freedom—the last day he had driven on this road and the last time he had driven at all 20 years ago.
As he stood paralyzed on the asphalt, his mind played a vivid image in his head against his own will. He was 23 years old, excitedly driving in his new pickup to work as the sun rose cheerily behind him. He could hardly believe he was so thrilled to arrive at the Centre Grocery Mart, but his girlfriend of two years had recently joined the team, and he was positively enthralled with her. A life spent together was all he envisioned for them, a destined partnership to last until the end of time.
But apparently, she felt differently. That day, in the canned food aisle at the mart, she dumped him, straight and simple. She wanted nothing to do with him, for she had found someone else.
“Who is it?” he had asked with a red fire bubbling deep in his gut.
“I- I won’t say,” she stuttered, looking up at him with a nervous look. He gazed at her intently, closely. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever known. Hell, he had given up drinking for her. A happy ending was right there on the horizon. But as he stared, he caught her eye flick to the right for a split-second, the shortest split-second in the world.
His head snapped in the same direction, his eyes landing on a coworker of theirs who was sneakily looking at them.
James didn’t remember much from the actual fight, but he did remember getting screamed at by his boss, Lenny. He had never seen that short, tenderhearted man so angry in his life. He left the store a single, jobless man and immediately marched to the bar right across the street without hesitation.
The buddy-buddy whiskey burned his throat but snuffed out the raging fire in his gut. Physically relaxed and far too satisfied, he’d figured it was time to head home.
It was at the last stoplight in town that the accident happened. James’s light had been long red, but for all he could tell at that intoxicated moment, it was a rainbow.
Parker North was the victim’s name. He was 23 as well, riding his bike home after tutoring some kids at the local middle school. He was a beloved character of the town, as was his rather influential father, Mr. Lee North.
James and Parker had gone to school together since they were young. They weren’t necessarily the most bosom of companions, but they were friends. They shook hands at sports events and threw back shots together when the moment presented itself at parties.
The incident was all in slow motion. One of the only clear images he remembered from the crash was the image of Parker splayed on the intersection.
Loud. Rough. Tragic. Cries. Yelling. Running.
Panic. Blood. Sirens. Parts.
Swerve marks.
Later in the courtroom, the resentment in Mr. Lee’s glazed eyes. James rammed back into the present, shaking his head roughly to break himself out of the memory.
“Idiot,” he whispered to himself as he walked back to the pickup. “You served your time. Get it together.”
He hopped back into the cab, easing his foot back onto the gas, and drove the rest of the way to his house at no more than 20 MPH. He breathed manually, positioning his tired gaze on the friendly lamppost to calm his nerves. But he couldn’t help but replay, replay, replay that sight of dead Parker in his head. A frozen frame on a VHS, not fading.
As he tried to ignore the image burned on the inside of his eyelids, James attempted to shove aside a thought that prodded him harshly—the way in which the deceased body of Parker had been tall, light in complexation, and unmoving…
***
Immense shame made itself known through the red shade of James’s cheeks as he pulled up on his driveway, or whatever monstrosity of a path he was driving on at the moment. He had a friend who had taken care of all the legal stuff, keeping the free and clear house under his name while he was in the slammer, but didn’t do much more than that in terms of maintenance.
Twenty years of nearly no TLC had not treated this place well—the amount of graffiti that decorated the outside of James’s home was mindboggling. It was impossible for him to avert his eyes from all of the words people were calling him. There was overgrown grass that had encroached upon every surface and side and square inch of the ground for yards and yards past his house, an empire of weeds and stink. The walls that were untouched by spray paint behind the dead foliage looked ancient, decayed, a horrific shade of brown and gray that seemed to dim the night sky.
James couldn’t help but think for a moment about what his parents would think. Considering both of his parents were gone of natural causes by the time he was 19, he always thought he’d been a good owner and had taken pretty decent care of the place. Until now, I guess. The house was outright unlivable, but he didn’t care. I deserve it.
He stepped across the cracked threshold of his side door and into the musty condition of his kitchen, where a swell of vehement emotions hit him like a-
The world seemed to stop turning as his eyes guided themselves to the dusty bottle that sat on his dining table. It exasperated him—the manner in which he was drawn immediately to the object. He thought he’d left this type of stuff behind. Where was this sixth sense still living from?
He approached the table, purposefully ignoring the horrific state of the house surrounding him for now. That’s a morning problem. For now, all he wanted was to reunite intimately with his memory foam mattress, no matter how infested with critters it may be.
To satisfy what he was calling ‘curiosity,’ he wiped the dust off of the label of the unopened bottle—Wild Turkey. Well, I’ll be damned.
His first shot of this brand had been only a few weeks before the accident. A raging party thrived at James’s house, every room packed with the young and old small-town folk who were desperate to feel something in the mundaneness—a hunger for the endorphins that seemingly were only born from drugs, bodies, and everything in between.
Parker had brought the bourbon, carefully eager to get James to try it.
“Listen, brother,” Parker threw his arm over James’s shoulder with camaraderie, “the only reason I brought this is because I know your ass is going to have to deal with this mess over the next few days. Otherwise, I would not be giving you this stuff. You hear? Plus, I stole it from Dad, so I’m risking everything for you.”
James cackled loudly with the glee of one who had already had a few drinks. “I hear you loud and clear. If Mr. Lee North comes accusin’, feel free to sic him on me. Pour ‘em up!”
“Only if you agree to call me tomorrow morning and let me know you’re still alive,” Parker chirped back. A shake of the hands later, and the bottoms of shot glasses faced the ceiling.
Needless to say, James had liked it. A few weeks later, he could be found at the store buying a bottle for himself. It would never be opened, though.
James, grimacing at the vividness of the memory, stared at the relic, a dark craving clawing at his innards with ferocity. He felt paralyzed until something moved in the corner of his eye.
His head snapped toward the grimy window, where he saw it again. The figure, tall and pale. Looking into the kitchen. Looking at James.
James jumped. It wasn’t catastrophically hard, but it was there. And it was just enough time and distraction for whatever was there to disappear.
Horrified, James darted to the backdoor where he shoved his head out and started screeching into the darkness at whoever was there to get off of his property, or else this bottle would get shoved up somewhere rather unpleasant.
James came back into the kitchen, feeling like he aged another couple of years. He couldn’t help but feel like he knew who he was seeing, and why he was seeing it.
Seconds later, the full bottle was chucked into the rusty space of a trashcan as he headed to bed.
***
James got out of bed the next late afternoon, disappointed at how badly he’d slept. Sure, the mattress was horrifically disgusting and probably wouldn’t be touched with a 10-foot pole by most people, but he still had a sliver of hope inside him that it would be comfortable. It was far from it. He did feel more confident about one thing, though, and that was that whatever happened last night was just a mixture of big changes and exhaustion. Nothing more.
Right?
He needed to clear his mind. Heading straight to the backyard and still disregarding the dilapidated state of his home, he decided it was time for some yard work. He located his dinky shed buried in weeds in the corner of the fenced area, yanking out a lawnmower that hadn’t seen the light of day for decades. James wasn’t so stupid as to think it would start up after all this time, but it wouldn’t hurt to try, he figured.
James circled around the mower, wondering where to start. He gave a weak attempt at pulling the starter cord, only for it to snap off pathetically. He decided to tip the mower on its side to check out its underside and noticed something lodged in between the blades. Without hesitation, James reached in to grab it, only to accidentally nick himself harshly on one of the sharp edges. Loud curses filled the air as he grasped his hand with his good one, squeezing his eyes shut and throwing his head back. When he brought his head down and opened his eyes, he saw it again.
The same pale set of eyes peeked over the fence, looking right at James. As soon as it processed in James’s mind what he saw, the eyes disappeared. He sprinted to the fence, careful not to strain his hand as he clambered just barely enough to see out past his backyard. From what he could tell, nothing resided in the area past the fence, but he couldn’t ponder on it for long before he slipped and landed harshly on his cut, sending an excruciating sting of pain through his arm and shoulder. Grimacing, he headed inside back to the kitchen, desperately looking around for something to stop the bleeding.
He settled on a dusty curtain on the window above the trashcan, tearing it off and tying it tightly around the open wound. The pain clouded his mind, making him sweat and use all of the willpower in his body to not release the stream of curses building inside his chest.
As he stood there, just breathing, his eyes fell upon the bottle that he’d tossed into the trashcan the night before. The clouds in his mind parted, and a different idea jutted in.
No. It won’t help.
He turned away, hesitantly, but turned nonetheless. The clarity also made room for his next plan of action.
He booked it out the door to his truck, where he’d forgotten he’d left his phone. It was a flip phone, one he’d asked his friend to pick up for him yesterday morning. He dialed a number that his parents forced him to memorize when he was younger, just in case of an emergency.
“…Hello?”
“Rudy? Rudy, it’s James.”
Silence fills the call for a few moments, except for James's frantic breaths. He was about to speak again when the same voice came through again. “God, don’t tell me you’re out of the slammer…”
James inhaled exasperatingly, trying to stay composed while on the phone with his neighbor who lived a bit down the road. “Yeah, I’m out. But I served my full time. I know you probably want nothing to do with me, but I need your help.”
James relayed all the details he could remember, anxiously awaiting the outcome of the call. Rudy was incredibly skeptical about coming but said he owed James’s parents and that he’d be right over.
In the meantime, James reached into the truck to grab his flashlight again. It had a decent weight to it if needed. A few minutes went by, and a tough-looking, older Rudy showed up in a large, booming truck. He parked and approached James, a scowl etched onto his face.
While James wanted to show respect and gratefulness for Rudy’s presence, the pair both knew that there was no need for even an attempt to be civil. James was deeply hated throughout the town, and he had no doubt that those feelings hadn’t dwindled at all over time. So, he skipped over the reunion and got straight to the point.
“Last night, I saw this thing in the weeds by the road over there, and then it was gone. Then last night, I saw the same person looking into my kitchen through the window, and this morning it was looking at me over the fence! I’m telling you, Rudy, I don’t know how but,” James’s words slowly faded to silence when he noticed how oddly the elderly man was looking at him, with squinted eyes and a crooked head. “Everything okay, sir?”
Rudy scoffed, looking down at the ground and shaking his head. “I did not want to come here.”
James was taken aback, unable to respond.
“But,” Rudy continued, “The missus gave me that stinkin’ look of hers, and I knew that I had to try. Your parents did a great deal for me, and I felt like I needed to pay that back. But now that I’m here lookin’ at you, all I want is to shoot off that damn face of yours.”
James took a step back, his heart heavy. Parker’s father had been like a brother to Rudy, and James had completely forgotten that in his panic.
“I’ll take one look around your property, just so I can tell the wife I did so. But I don’t have one doubt in my mind that what you’re seein’ isn’t actually there. Be back,” Rudy said gruffly as he walked away towards the side of James’s house.
Isn’t actually there…?
James remained by the pickup, his face shoved into his bloody, shaky hands.
Never even here…
After a few minutes, Rudy arrived back to where James was sitting, an extensively displeased expression on his face. “There are no signs of anyone bein’ here, James, inside or out.”
James was speechless, dumbfounded. Rudy took offense to it, stepping up rapidly to James and speaking harshly into his face. “You are no good. The day you took Lee’s son, the man was never the same. You just about killed him, too, and for that, you will never have forgiveness.”
James exhaled softly. Rudy backed up slowly, disgust pervading every inch of his face. “Lay off the drinks, yeah? Pathetic.”
With blood smeared on his face, James stayed quiet, like his mouth was stitched shut. Rudy let out a final scoff before turning around and getting back into his truck. He began to back out of the driveway but didn’t get far before James burst out of nowhere.
“You are fucking useless! I haven’t touched liquor in 20 years! Twenty. Goddamn. Years!”
James put his all into those words, taking a step back and breathing heavily. He stomped back into the house, tears welling in his eyes. He walked up to the trashcan, eyes landing once more on the full bottle lying at the bottom. It stared back up at him, pulling him into a downright seductive trance.
But he broke away once more. He could hardly believe he was able to do it.
***
A couple of hours passed, but it felt like minutes. James had just been walking up and down the street, unable to bring himself to do anything better. He whispered to himself over and over, it’s just a ghost. Parker is dead. It’s just a ghost. He’s dead. I saw him. He’s deader than dead.
Not a lick of consideration was allowed to ponder the possibility of Parker being alive.
When it got too dark to see, James headed back to his unlivable, hideous abode. But it was his, and he was going to make himself live there. Forever.
He entered the house, heading straight for the living room and to the singular bookshelf that looked like was being held together by spider webs. He was reaching for a book that he couldn’t even read the title of because it was so dusty when he heard a creek behind him.
He whipped around at an alarming speed. Nothing was there from what he could see.
“Parker?” he croaked, voice cracking.
Nothing was said back, and he accepted it.
I’m as deserving of this haunting as one could possibly be.
He turned around, facing the bookshelf again, and changed the trajectory of his reach to grab another book.
He retreated to the mangled, repulsively smelling couch in the center of the room that had definitely been used for several reasons at the abandoned house parties that had been held there. Letting his achy bones relax into the questionable cushions, he rested the Bible on his lap, keeping his hurt and healthy hands locked around it. As he dragged his fingertips over the detailed embossment on the cover, his visual field morphed into the sight of him resting his hand on a Bible 20 years ago as he went under oath.
He looked up from his seat on the witness stand, trying his absolute hardest to keep his eyes away from Parker’s father who sat in the front. But he couldn’t help it. He looked and was met with a glare so full of hatred, he wished he could die right at that moment to transfer to Heaven and balance out what he felt.
Maybe he should have pled the fifth after all, just based on that glare that emotionally sent him six feet under and sent him straight to hell.
Thinking about the memory felt like another shotgun blast to the chest. Releasing the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, he decided to close his eyes. He’d had enough of his one-and-a-half days here and just wanted to slip away.
***
…
I peer into his living room, where he rests. Where he rests.
What a waste of a man.
You took the one good thing in my life.
I wished on a whim earlier that you’d been cut deeper, that you’d bleed out slowly. But now, I’m just glad I get to finish you off myself. My way.
…
***
James jolted awake, slick with sweat. He felt something. A presence.
He’s here.
He glanced around, seeing nothing. But it was there. He knew, somehow.
Enough.
James stopped letting his thoughts interfere. He stood up, set the Bible down, walked to the kitchen, went to the trashcan, picked up the bottle, opened it, drank from it, drank more, and drank more. He’d take a drink, do a circle around the old island, and take another. He just kept going.
He couldn’t stop. It sunk back into him, why he used to do this. He felt instantaneously better, especially considering he hadn’t eaten in at least 36 hours. He finally set down the bottle on the island, encountering how much he’d actually drunk.
All clarity of his guilt hurled into him at once, making him stagger backward into the counter opposite the island. He pressed his hands onto the sides, steadying himself. He finally noticed how unfocused and fuzzy his vision had gotten. He was dizzy, with an impending sense of passing out creeping into his system.
He could barely comprehend it when he saw it. The figure was quickly walking up to him, tall and pale. James threw up his hands in front of his face in a poor, drunk defense, when the person, a man, arrived and punched James with the most force he’d ever felt in his life.
He fell to the ground in the area between the counter and the island, frantically trying to cover his face and head. The person kicked him in the side over and over, sending jerks of agony throughout his whole body. James listened to the person over him grunting and groaning with each kick, putting all of his power into them. James recognized the voice, and it wasn’t Parker’s. It was similar, though.
“Mr. North,” James called out weakly.
Parker’s father stopped his punts for a mere second before roughly forcing James onto his back, stepping with his full weight onto James’s hurt hand.
James cried out loudly, wriggling pathetically to escape the pain. The man simply watched. After what felt like centuries of torment, Mr. North stepped off, crouching next to the helplessly feeble drunk.
“You made this way too easy,” Mr. North told him with a deep, evil vengeance in his voice. “Interesting how you sometimes just don’t see someone, hm?”
The father pulled a knife out of his back pocket, holding it to James’s throat. He flinched the tiniest bit, the tip of the blade against his skin, sobering him just a tad.
James looked into the savagely vicious eyes of Mr. North, and all he felt was understanding.
“Wait,” James wheezed as Mr. North pressed the knife in further. “Wait, please.”
James glanced upward at the island, where the empty bottle of Wild Turkey still resided. He lifted his weak, shaking hand a few inches to point upward at the bottle, making Mr. North look at it as well. He looked back at James, angry but puzzled.
“Use that instead,” James told him. The father’s eyes darkened immensely, tossing down the knife with fury and grabbing the bottle with both hands.
As James lay there limply on the floor and watched the glass bottle hurl at his head, all he could think about was how much Parker looked like his dad.