The Second Floor

The Second Floor

A Novel

by

J. Maynard Carr

~ ~ ~

For Lisa…

and the kids

~ ~ ~

Copyright 2011 by J. Maynard Carr ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual places, events, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

www.jmaynardcarr.com

jmaynardcarr@gmail.com

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Thank you for your support.

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The Second Floor

J. Maynard Carr

Spirit n. 1. the essence of conscious life, the incorporeal part of humans

2. specter, ghost 3. attitude, in terms of firmness of intent

~ ~ ~

Love

Is never afraid

Of fear

Fear

Is always afraid

Of love

~Sri Chinmoy

~ ~ ~

~: Prologue :~

October 29, 1981 :~

Only a dozen or so wrinkled leaves trembled on the branches. It was not a friendly, kindhearted trembling as if from the renewing breezes of April or May, but a sad, bitter twisting from the frosty gusts of October. Even for Wisconsin it was cold. A frigid Canadian air mass promised snow—a promise as yet unfulfilled. A slender naked branch screeched against the window, and inside, sheltered from the black, wintry night, a young mother and her little girl lay on the bed reading.

Bloody Mary, the mother read, screamed a curse at the villagers. If anyone mentioned her name aloud before a mirror, she would send her spirit to avenge her terrible murder. After her death, the villagers went to Mary’s house in the woods where they found the unmarked graves of the little girls the evil witch had slain.

Mommy? Are witches real?

I told you this story would scare you.

But I like to be scared, and it’s not really that scary, the girl insisted, hesitating. She hugged herself against the cold, even though it was warm inside. The lace curtains did little to shield the pair from the freezing air trying to force its way through the window. The little girl pulled her covers up further. What about ghosts? Are ghosts real?

I don’t know, Kelly, her mother answered. Angels are real and they are spirits, so I suppose ghosts could be, too, but I don’t know. I guess you’ll have to find out for yourself. Recently divorced, the young mother could not find it in her heart to deny her daughter anything. She wondered why her little princess only wanted to read scary stories. Why do you like these stories? Why can’t we read about princesses or Cinderella or something nice? How about Black Beauty? Don’t stories about ghosts and witches scare you?

No. I’m not scared. Besides, I don’t believe in ghosts, the girl stated firmly. I like ghost stories ‘cause it’s almost Halloween.

The mother thought about Halloween. The kids would be wearing their parkas over their costumes again this year. Its time for bed, baby. It’s late. We’ll finish tomorrow.

Ahh, come on, Mommy.

No sweetheart. Besides, if we finish, you’ll be too scared to sleep.

Will not! And I’m not scared, the little girl exclaimed. I don’t believe in ghosts!

The young mother smiled as she rose from the bed, then turned to hug and kiss her little girl, gently tucking her under the covers. Good night, Kelly, she said from the doorway, turning out the lights. Sleep tight, baby. See you in the morning.

The little girl listened as her mommy walked down the hall, the wood floor squeaking when she got to the spot where it always squeaked. Outside, the swirling wind sighed around the eaves. Little Kelly snuggled further under the comforter, listening to the scraping limbs and the moaning wind, imagining the voices of things far creepier. She was warm enough, yet still she shivered. She tried to close her eyes, but when she did, witches and ghouls and ghosts and murdered little girls floated through her mind. She opened her eyes, but her darkened room was of little comfort. There was a spooky thing in every shadow: monsters and demons were everywhere. She didn’t want her mom to know that she was scared but hiding it was hard. She quietly got out of bed and padded softly down the hall to her mother’s room. The bluish white glow from the television showed through the partially opened door.

Mommy? Kelly asked, her little voice begging from the doorway. Can I sleep with you tonight?

July 18, 1947:~

A shout and a crash woke Lenora from her troubled sleep. He was sleepwalking again through the living room of their small apartment—his nightmares had become hers. She knew better than to confront him. He would eventually wake up and come tentatively back to bed. His flashbacks were becoming more and more violent and she was increasingly worried about him.

She was also terribly frightened.

When he first came home from Germany, William, like all of the other soldiers, was jubilant that the war was over and was anxious to get on with his life. They had been sweethearts since high school and had been married by the Justice of the Peace within a week of his arrival back home. They moved into a second floor apartment in a San Francisco Victorian.

At first they were happy. He got a job at the docks and was bringing home pretty good money. Soon after their wedding, however, she noticed that there were times when he seemed depressed and unfocused—he was quiet and often drank a lot. He insisted that nothing was wrong. Just stuff that happened in the war, was his reply. You wouldn’t understand.

One night, several months after their wedding, she found him in their living room hiding behind the couch whispering about Germans and demanding that she hide. He was clearly asleep, but also drunk and very scared. He later explained that he must have been sleepwalking, but his actions frightened her. Anxious to please her, he agreed to go to a doctor, but things didn’t get better—they got worse. He was having violent nightmares almost every night now, re-fighting the war in their living room. Twice, while sleepwalking, he had beaten her badly.

The beatings had scared him too.

She left him alone as the doctor had suggested. Let him fight it out. The doctor was working hard, trying to find something that might help, and William was an obedient patient. He went to his appointments and took his prescribed medicines—but it wasn’t helping.

She jumped as something crashed to the floor.

Terrified, she pulled her covers up higher. What if he came in here? What if he found a knife or some other weapon? He could kill her without even knowing what he had done, while totally asleep, and completely unaware of his behavior. She sat up in bed, not knowing what to do, but ready at a moment’s notice to do something.

She heard a loud knock at the front door. ’Nora? Bill? You guys okay?

Adam, their downstairs neighbor, had been awakened by the commotion. She knew William could easily attack the poor man—he, too, was a former GI who had been wounded in Italy. She had to try to stop him. We’re fine, Adam, she answered, but rose from her bed and walked quietly into the front room. She nervously searched for the light switch. She didn’t want to startle William. She didn’t know what he might do or where he might be.

Viciously and without any warning, William attacked. She screamed as the knife entered the left side of her back just below her ribs. The force of his attack spun her around and dropped her to her knees even as the blade destroyed her liver. The shock and pain took her breath away. She turned to him and tried to stop him, but she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even breathe. He overpowered her, throwing her to the ground as his second thrust entered her right side, between her ribs. She felt every inch of the blade as it tore through her lungs and lacerated her aorta. Though she didn’t know it, she was dying before he had even removed his blade.

Lenora lay on the floor unable to move, with William crouching defensively over her like a soldier. She could smell the metallic essence of her blood as it soaked through her white cotton nightgown and spread on the floor around her. She could hear William’s panting and her own desperate breathing as he pinned her to the floor, her senses heightened by the intensity of her pain. Reflexively, she coughed, spraying blood all over William, even as her mouth filled again. She heard the door open and was startled as Adam turned on the light and rushed into the room. Adam tackled William, forcing him off of her, but she still couldn’t move. She felt as though she was a light that was going out—not like an electric light or a snuffed out candle, but like a gradually dying fire—simply out of fuel. She was desperately cold.

Unexpectedly, from a vantage point near the ceiling, Lenora watched all of this clearly, as if in a dream. Wondering at her new perspective, she watched as Adam and William wrestled near her body, Adam fighting desperately for control of the knife. William suddenly woke up, confused at first, then distraught when he saw her lying unconscious in a great pool of blood, the large, bloody butcher knife still in his hand. Dropping the knife, William turned toward her lifeless body. She watched as Adam, afraid that William would hurt her again, restrained him as he moved to try to comfort her, sobbing. She wondered why it didn’t hurt.

She screamed, suddenly confused and scared. Why didn’t it hurt? No one responded. No one even turned to look at her. Lois, Adam’s wife and Lenora’s best friend, ran into the room, took one look at the gory body of her friend on the floor and vomited. She collapsed near the door.

Help me! Lenora screamed. Somebody please help me!

But no one responded. For reasons she couldn’t comprehend, no one seemed to see or hear her. She felt as if she were floating above the scene, disconnected, yet still intimately involved. She struggled in vain to get down to the floor—trying somehow to animate her seemingly lifeless body—yet was unable to move.

When the police arrived a short time later, they took a despondent William away in handcuffs. The police removed her blood-covered body, yet she remained behind. Why? She was dead, but why was she still here? After their investigation was complete, the police officers and her friends left, leaving her alone in her apartment, mystified, frightened, and yet unable to tear herself away from the gruesome scene. People came the next day to clean up the sticky pool of her congealed blood, now more black then red. The cleaning people couldn’t see or hear her either. Utterly horrified, she slowly realized she must be a ghost. Confused, scared, and lonelier than she had ever been, Lenora sat in her now empty second floor apartment and wondered why.

November 19, 2008 :~

Far beneath the streets and sidewalks of the South Bay the tension building along the strike-slip fault that formed the boundary between the North American and the Pacific tectonic plates suddenly released. The Earth moved. Seismologists immediately went to work. Tsunami warning centers all over the Pacific basin including those in California, Japan, Hawaii, Washington, and even Australia and Chile went on alert.

The Earth had moved.

Nearly seventeen miles underground, the Pacific plate slipped northward approximately two meters. The disruption was minor, not extending to the surface of the Earth. The evening television news in the San Francisco area reported a 4.7 Richter scale earthquake with the epicenter in Santa Clara County along the Hayward Fault System. It was the third story in the broadcast after a discussion of the Giants’ chances of making it to the upcoming playoffs. The temblor was mentioned by only one media outlet in Los Angeles and not at all outside of California. Residents of the Bay Area, complacent about the periodic movement of the Earth, hardly even noticed. Visiting tourists were excited and happy to have lived through an earthquake in San Francisco. The seismologists determined the epicenter to be N 37.43670 W 121.91322 in Milpitas, California. Minor property damage was noted just to the west of the intersection of the Nimitz and South Bay freeways.

Due to curiosities in the way seismic waves are propagated through the Earth’s mantle, seismographs as far away as The Philippines registered the temblor, but only as a minor twitch. It was a slightly larger convulsion than usual on a planet that has thousands of similar seizures every day. It was one of nearly fifty magnitude 4.5 or greater earthquakes reported worldwide that day. No further damage was reported, no aftershocks were expected, and life in the Bay Area continued, essentially uninterrupted.

The Earth had moved, and few seemed to care.

September 23, 1979 :~

The boys played on the swing-set in the backyard as they had been told. Archie—the older by five years—listened to his parents quarrel, and knew his Dad would hit his Mom, because he drank too much beer. He hated it when they fought.

Why are Daddy and Mommy yelling? Conrad, Archie’s younger brother was always bothering him with unanswerable questions.

I think Daddy drank too much beer.

Does beer make you mad?

I don’t know, Archie answered. Shut up, he said, annoyed.

Conrad pulled on his sleeve. I’m hungry.

We have to stay here until they say its okay.

If Daddy hits Mommy then it will be okay, right?

No! Shut up, stupid.

I’m hungry.

Shut up.

April 22, 2008 :~

Pam Connelly’s life was nearly perfect—and everything would be perfect when the baby arrived in a few months. She smiled as she drove down the four lane highway on her way home from the doctor. She and Brad were so in love. And he was so good looking, she giggled. All of her friends were beside themselves with jealousy. Brad was an Olympic swimmer, and he had the body of a god. Well, he had almost made it to the Olympics, she reminded herself.

The sex was amazing.

Neither of them expected to start a family so soon, but she and Brad were both excited and happy about having a baby. They had been making love more than ever since she found out she was pregnant, even though he said they could stop practicing now that they had finally gotten it right. She was showing now, and a little self-conscious about her bulging tummy, but Brad related to her all the time that her pregnant body was incredible. He could barely keep his hands off of her. She was unfocused, daydreaming about making love to her beautiful man.

On the other side of the highway a young man on a motorcycle cut off the driver of a tanker-trailer. Instinctively, the driver of the truck braked hard to avoid the motorcycle which missed the front bumper of his truck by only a few feet. His full load of milk—notoriously difficult to drive—surged to the front left side of the tank in response to the sudden braking, forcing the truck and trailer to the left and starting it tipping. The driver desperately tried to regain control, but within seconds it was clear that the truck and trailer would roll. He said a quick prayer as he braced for the impact of the crash.

Too late, Pam realized what was happening. She turned her car away from the horror crossing the center line, but the shiny aluminum trailer slid across the narrow grassy median and violently struck her car. The truck driver suffered only minor injuries.

Pam was not so lucky.

The cylindrical trailer’s momentum crushed her car. After careening across three lanes of highway, the conjoined trailer and trapped car stopped suddenly after sliding onto the soft shoulder on Pam’s side of the road. She drove a Volvo, which she and Brad bought specifically because it was considered to be one of the safest cars on the road. She was wearing her seat belt. The airbags had deployed. None of this mattered for Pam. Airbags and seatbelts don’t help against 42,000 pounds of aluminum semi-trailer. The first highway patrolman on the scene did what he could to help her, but it was obvious that she would not survive. The patrolman held her hand, trying to comfort her, but she died before the ambulance arrived.

Her last thoughts were of Brad.

Kelly was pleased with herself. Today had been an opening for a major new artist, and everything had gone perfectly. The artist was happy. The museum director was happy. Kelly’s behind-the-scenes job had been to coordinate the opening, and it had gone as well as she dared hope. It was the first time she had been trusted with this much responsibility, and she had pulled it off. The director rewarded her with a big smile, a pat on the back, and an extra hour off. Kelly and her friend Melinda used the hour to stop off at Nick’s across the street for a celebratory drink. She and Melinda worked together every day and didn’t have many secrets. Both were pretty, yet they were very different from one another. Kelly was tall and slender, and much more casual than Melinda, who was petite, but more stylish. Melinda had dark, nearly black hair, cut short. Kelly wore her light brunette hair long. Kelly preferred slacks and a sweater to Melinda’s designer dress and heels. Happy hour was crowded and they turned many heads as they walked into the pub. Melinda noticed, because she tried so hard; Kelly could have cared less. Kelly didn’t drink often, but tonight enjoyed a single cold beer—a reward for a job well done. It was past seven when she headed home, anxious to tell her boyfriend, Conrad, about her show. She wanted him to share her excitement.

They had recently moved into a little three bedroom house on the east side of Madison. She liked their new home a lot better than their old apartment near UWM. It was in a nice neighborhood with trees and kids and families. It was more expensive and too near an interstate highway and too close to the train tracks, but they had a yard and some nice shade trees and it was cute. It would be a good first home if she and Conrad ever got married and started a family.

The radio played Kenny Chesney as she turned onto Mendota Street. She pulled into the driveway and saw Conrad waiting outside. He was scowling at her before she even got out of the car.

Where ya been? he slurred, drunkenly.

I was at work. Our new show opened today, remember?

I called, he sneered. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. You weren’t there.

Melinda and I went to Nick’s for a beer after work. Just to celebrate. No big deal, she replied defensively.

Why didn’t ya answer your cell? Any guys there with you?

She took her cell phone from her purse and saw it was still turned off. She wasn’t allowed to use it while at work. Sorry. I guess I forgot to turn it back on. You know I’m not allowed to use it at work. She thumbed it back on as she walked into the house.

Who were you with, Kelly? he shouted, as he followed her into the house.

Melinda. I told you. What are you so pissed off about?

Nothing, he said angrily. I wanna’ know where you were is all. How do I know what you’re doin’?

She put her purse on the table next to a half empty bottle of whiskey. Wow, she said to herself. He is really drunk. She picked up the bottle and turned to face him.

I told you. We went to Nick’s for a beer. And you know what else? she asked angrily. Piss off. You can drink half a bottle of whiskey ‘cause you had a bad day, and I’m not allowed to have one beer with my friend to celebrate a good one? She held up the bottle, not attempting to hide her irritation.

The punch came from nowhere. It landed in her left ribcage just below her bra. Stunned and suddenly breathless, she dropped the bottle as she buckled and fell to the floor. The bottle shattered on the floor and the pungent smell of bourbon filled her kitchen and her nostrils. She instinctively curled into the fetal position to protect herself and to try to catch her breath. Her ribs hurt so bad she didn’t even want to breathe.

Fucking bitch! You broke my fucking bottle. Who were you there with?

It was just me and Melinda, I swear. We didn’t even talk to one guy. she said through ragged breaths. A tear fell over her cheek. He’d never hit her before. She tried carefully to crawl away.

Who’s Melinda? He pushed her roughly to the floor with his booted foot.

She’s my friend. We work together. She paused, physically hurt, but emotionally crushed. You hurt me, she whimpered.

Whatever. You deserved it. I don’t want you hanging out with her anymore…break my fucking bottle. He towered over her—intimidating, controlling, frightening. Clean that shit up, he commanded.

Holding her side where he’d hit her, a thousand thoughts rushed through her mind. He had never hit her before. What had she done to deserve that? He stood over her angrily. She tried to stand, but his boot again pushed her down.

I said to clean that shit up.

Jesus. I’m going to get a towel.

Hurry up.

Conrad watched as she painfully stood and took a dish towel from the counter to soak up the spilled whiskey and bent to pick up the broken glass. After a while, he left her alone and went into the family room and turned on the television. She wondered, as she cleaned up, why he would hit her. Conrad had never been particularly loving and he sometimes got moody when he was drunk or had a bad day at work, but he had never been violent.

Was he really jealous? Maybe something really awful happened at work? She knew sometimes very bad things happened to cops at work. They were always seeing the worst of people.

Why was she justifying him hitting her?

She was confused and angry and hurting and sad. She took her time, wanting to avoid another confrontation. She didn’t want him to be angry, yet she was so angry herself. What should she do? She felt vulnerable and defenseless. Her relationship with a police officer, which at first had seemed so secure and comforting, now terrified her. Who could she turn to? What if he hit her again? Could she trust the police? He had friends on the force. Would they believe her? Would they be able to protect her from him? Would they even try? She promised herself that she would never give him reason to hit her again, even as she wondered why a simple drink with a friend had provoked him so. She also pledged to herself that if he ever hit her again, she would leave him.

After she finished cleaning up in the kitchen, she tiptoed into the family room, her left arm tight against her sore ribs. She didn’t want to disturb him or even talk to him. Luckily, he was passed out on the couch with the TV on. She slipped past him and into the bedroom. After locking the door, she took a warm shower and a couple of ibuprofen tablets and felt a little better, but was shocked by the bruise his punch had left. Already it was black and blue. She wondered if any ribs might be broken. It did hurt a lot when she tried to take a deep breath. The elation she had felt at the success of her day was a distant, sour memory. After putting on her pajamas, she quietly crept back out to the kitchen for a snack. She didn’t want to wake him, but she hadn’t eaten since breakfast and decided to risk it.

He was lying on the couch with his mouth open, snoring. His head was hanging off the cushion—his neck at an odd angle. After hastily making a sandwich she again tiptoed past him. She left him just as he was, passed out on the couch. His neck would be hurting when he woke up. Though it went against her nature to wish something bad on someone, a sardonic smile crossed her lips as she locked herself in the bedroom.

At least she wouldn’t be the only one who felt like shit in the morning.

~

~: Part One — Winter :~

~: Chapter One — Escape :~

She was freezing, even though she had only been outside for a few minutes. Kelly Avery ran away from her home—and away from her life. She was having second thoughts, but it was already too late