Chapter 3 The Ghost Fucker

Makia made it home, but she honestly couldn’t remember how. She only snapped back into the present when she ran into Agatha in the lobby of the apartment building. Ags was getting mail out of their mailbox. Makia watched as her friend opened the metal mailbox door marked 404 and took out the mail to sort it.

“All junk again. And a few bills.” Ags looked like she wanted to shove it all back in the mailbox and lock it shut again to keep the bills from chasing them home. Then she looked up. “Hey. Makia. You’re even quieter than usual today. If that’s even possible.”

Agatha nudged her with an elbow. Makia nodded her head solemnly and managed a half smile.

Her friend looked concerned now. “Oh, wow. Sorry! Is something wrong?” She grabbed Makia by the arm and gently tugged to lead her up the stairs to their unit. “C’mon. Let’s go home and talk. I’ll make you some tea. Or something.”

They were halfway down the hallway to their apartment when the crazy neighbor spotted them.

“Oh, boy. Crazy sighted at 12 o’clock,” Agatha muttered. They picked up speed.

The older man looked a wreck. His balding, gray-red hair was askew and coated in cobwebs. The over-worn, corduroy blazer with the elbow patches looked like it had even more stains than usual. He spotted Makia, and hollered down the hall, “You got somethin’ to answer for. Hold up there!” He pointed to Makia, who hid behind Agatha.

He carried a ragtag parcel covered in twine, which he swung with a bellicose air as he marched up to them. “What’s with those fucking paintings of yours?”

Makia stepped back. “What do you mean? The ones in the storage area?” The shared storage area in the basement was a common source of contention between tenants. Many of them used more space than they were allotted per unit. “I didn’t take up more space than I’m allowed. So what’s the problem?”

He calmed down a bit and looked over his shoulder. “Theys was staring at me!”

“They’re landscapes.” Makia replied, holding her hands up for emphasis and staying behind her taller, more composed friend.

“Yeh, well, yeah, but,” He looked over his shoulder again. “They’re more n’ that. The face in one of ‘em had eyes that seemed like they followed me around the room, for Chrissake!”

Makia saw Ags tense a little at that. “Um…no need to swear.” As he glanced behind him, she looked down the hall now, too. His paranoia was contagious. “Ok…so they ‘looked’ at you,” she said in her most reasonable voice. “Sometimes paintings can seem like that. No harm done, right?”

He ran a hand through his stubble and over his dusty hair. “Yeah, no. Because when I brought down some o’ these—he held up a bundle of magazines by the knot of rope—when I brought these down to put in my spot right next to it, the ghost fucker reached out an’ tried to grab me.” He threw the bundle on the floor, apparently for emphasis.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

He held a finger up and pointed it at Makia. “You made the damn thing. You call it off!” He stormed into his apartment and slammed the door shut. They heard him yell through the door as he locked it from inside. “An’ put those down there while you’re at it!”

Agatha and Makia looked at each other, speechless. Then Makia looked at the bundle of magazines more closely. The top one, a Field & Stream, was dated 1983. Those are older than me…What the hell is he saving those for?

“C’Mon. Let’s leave those there.” Ags toed the bundle aside with a red, high-heeled shoe. I’m not dealing with his crazy anymore than I have to,” she muttered, and dragged Makia inside their own place.

Makia looked shaken enough that her friend put off interrogating her about her sullen mood, and she was able to escape to her bedroom/studio to be alone. She locked the door behind her and sat on her unmade bed with a thump.

She still had her coat on, but before she took it off, she fished her cellphone from one of the motorcycle jacket’s many pockets and stared at it.

She sat on the unmade bed to listen to the rest of Rex’s messages. A bunch of calls from Rex. Lots of messages, too. She braced herself as she listened to the barrage of voicemail.

Makia, it’s Rex again. Call me back.

Hey Makia. It’s Rex. I keep getting calls from a crazy collector who has your work. He’s insisting there’s something off about the painting he bought. Hoping to get some information from you to placate him. Thanks. Call me back.

Makia. It’s Rex. A few of the buyers have called and emailed the gallery since last night. They all say the close to same thing: they think the paintings are…how did that one put it? “Out to get them.” One even said it tried to—Oh, incoming call, got to go.

Makia, that was a call from Pié Gruenwald. He just threatened to return his painting to the gallery. Luckily, we’ll be closed for a few days. Did you use pigment with hallucinogenic properties or something? That would mean a breach of contract. But let’s talk.

I’m in the storeroom now. I started putting away the we paintings we had left. But it..it..no, wait NO—

Makia dropped the phone on the bed. Suddenly she felt cold enough to keep her jacket on. She stared at the “studio” part of her bedroom, which was really just an easel, a small cabinet that had the top crammed with jars full of brushes, and a messy palette. Its drawers were filled with tubes of oil paint, painting medium and rags.

The easel itself was empty at the moment. The last piece Makia had finished painting was leaning at an angle to face the wall, so that the dust would stay out of the varnish as it dried.

She crept up to it, grabbed the wire on the back and turned the canvas around as fast as she could. She dropped it against the wall so it faced her again and jumped back, just in case.

No ghost figure. Thank God! She crouched and looked at it more closely to make sure. Is there anything hiding in the trees? No. Good. Anything spooky weird in the tall grass or flowers? No. The clouds? No. Nothing odd here.

Makia stood up again, and, fear gone, realized she was so concerned about the damn painting in the room, she didn’t even think to call 911 to send help to Rex, in case he needed it. God, I’m the worst! She spun around to grab her phone off of the bed and froze in place mid-reach.

An eerie, white figure stood in the far corner of the room. It looked like it was watching her, judging her, even, but really, if she looked harder, the eyes were empty circles of nothingness.

Its mouth, that was not a mouth, exactly, spoke in what sounded like a tinny echo of itself. “Tanith knows.”

The figure tilted its head, and moved closer. Its long, thin, ghastly arm reached for Makia, and she screamed.