Page 6 of Last Breath

I could sleep for days on end. For that, though, we’ll need a place to rest.

He spins around and looks in the back seat. “Damn, there’s nothing to eat. I’m freakin’ starved.” Having given Lucy the last of our food from the rest stop, my stomach grumbles in reply.

“Yeah. We’ll find somewhere to sleep first. I’ll swing out to grab food at a gas station after I nap.”

“Get some sleep, Mal. I’ll—”

Waving him off, knowing him alone in a public place is a big, bad issue, I say it sweetly. I’m fearful of letting him go alone, but I don’t voice it. “No. No worries, Salem. I’ll grab us food.”

“You’re tired. I can do it, I swear.” He thinks he can, but I know the truth of it. Him. Public. The chance that someone will set him off is high. That means the chances of an unexpected death is inevitable. The last thing we need is another so soon.

As I’m driving, I look around the area. We’re in rural Ohio. There’s a lack of subdivisions, gas stations or grocery stores. There are farmhouses with livestock out front and fields of green crops. We’re definitely rural. In the distance, I see a rundown shack that could be a good place to stop. With weeds covering the front, an overgrown driveway, and a side building that leans so far over a stiff breeze would make it fall, I know it’s the perfect place.

A place that time has forgotten.

I point to the abandoned building. “I’m pulling in there, Sal.”

Pulling up the drive, the Impala rattles across the rough track. Parking beside the leaning shed, hiding the car from sight, I shut it off. I’m so tired that even popping the door feels like a work out.

“Come on,” I tell Sal as I step out.

“I’ll be a sec, Mal. Go ahead. I’ll grab the bags.”

“Okay.”

Hopping out, the heat of the day blasts me. It’s bright out, and the sun’s rays add another weight to my tired soul. I feel heavy and sluggish. Making my way through the weeded path, past overgrown bushes and rough ground, I step up to the broken screen door.

One of the silliest rituals I have about abandoned homes is a need to knock. I know it sounds funny, but knocking tells the ghosts we’re friendly. It’s a crazy superstition of mine from childhood. The last house, where I didn’t knock on the door, we’d found Lucy.

Right now, raising my hand to knock is almost too much. I’m so damn tired that even a ghost would be too much effort.

Raising my hand, I rap on the door, the sound rattling my skull.

Chapter 6

Joy

The music piping through the ancient Victrola phone croons about finding love.

“Sweetie,” Marjory, my gran, calls out from the living room.

I ignore her.

I ignore her a lot.

I ignore her needs for my own sanity because I have to. If I’m being honest, though, I think sanity left me some time ago. Now there’s only moments of subtle peace.

“Joy this, Joy that. Sweetie, sweetie, sweetie,” I mock mutter as I’m dancing to my own creepy tune, a tune that I’ve found both relaxes and settles me.

Sheloves to listen to the records of her youth. They’ve become the soundtrack to my day.

Everyday.

All day.

Day in and day out.

Standing on the steps of my grandmother’s laundry room, I grind my way through menial tasks. “Sweetie,” my grandmother crows once more.

---