Edward Lee - Ghouls

Screwed out of another night’s sleep, he thought. Disgusted, he leaned up from the couch and turned on the light. The room was free of phantoms.

Vaguely he recalled a dream of waking up in the back of a bus. There are no other passengers. The bus is swerving, out of control, and heading for the edge of a cliff. Is the driver drunk? Perhaps he is sick and needs help. Kurt stumbles up the aisle, tossed back and forth into the empty seats. The engine’s drone deafens him; the bus plows on. But when Kurt finally makes it to the front, he sees that there is no driver. There is no steering wheel, no brakes. And with that final recognition, the bus accelerates off the edge of the cliff.

Another classic Morris nightmare. Subconscious distrust of mass transit? Freud would shit.

The scream had been far off and brief, but a scream just the same. He must’ve dreamed it. He supposed it could’ve been himself, as the dream-bus had plummeted off the cliff.

In his old blue robe, he padded out of the den, inordinately pleased with the particulate darkness about him. It soothed him somehow, wiped his senses clear. Perhaps the sound he’d heard was Melissa crying out in her sleep. It wouldn’t have been the first time, with all that horror junk she watched on TV. One foot into the foyer, he saw a figure stop on the stairs.

His heart seemed to wrench completely around.

Vicky gasped. “God, you scared the—”

“Shit out of me,” Kurt said, and then his heart began going again. “It’s close to two.”

“I know. We really should stop meeting like this. What would the neighbors say?” She came the rest of the way down the steps, bringing with her the scent of soap. “I thought I heard a scream.”

“Me, too.” So much for the dream theory. “It might have been Melissa having a nightmare. I was just on my way to check.”

They went through the TV room and down the hall. Kurt clicked open Melissa’s door. The room was frozen as a soft painting. Melissa lay burrowed beneath a mound of blankets, one arm slung over her head. Her fingers twitched. “But, Ben, ” she murmured in her sleep, “Johnny’s got the keys.” Then she jabbered something else about a gasoline pump and fell silent.

Kurt closed the door. “How do you like that? The little horror talks in her sleep.”

“You talk in your sleep,” Vicky said.

“How would you know?”

“I’ve heard you a bunch of times. Your voice travels right up through my heat duct.”

“You’re not serious,” he insisted.

“I wouldn’t lie to you. You’re a sleeping chatterbox.”

He started back down the hall, still not sure if she was joking or not. “Okay then. What do I say?”

“Nothing incriminating. Too bad I don’t take notes. A couple of hours ago, though, I do seem to recall hearing you blabber something about a bus. Yeah, that’s right, you kept saying, ‘There’s no one driving,’ or something like that.”

Shit, I’m mouthing off in my sleep. What next? Somnambulistic handstands?

“Signs of a soul in torment,” she said.

In the kitchen, Kurt poured orange juice into coffee cups. They faced each other in the dark, Kurt leaning against the counter, Vicky against the dishwasher.

“So what did we hear?” she queried. “Murder in the wee hours?”

“It was probably Melissa, like I said. Or maybe a couple of catbirds raising hell, someone laying wheel on the route. Who knows.”

“Lenny loves to do that. Sometimes I think that’s the only reason he bought that pig of a car, to burn rubber.”

The juice turned sour in Kurt’s mouth at the thought of Lenny Stokes, and made him only more aware of his imbecilic jealousy. “I wrote him up for it many times,” he said.

Vicky lit a cigarette over the snap of a match. Her face flared, soft and beautiful in a brief glow of orange. “Did Melissa tell you the good news?” she asked.

“What good news?”

“I have an aunt in Carbondale—”

“What the hell is a Carbondale?”

“It’s a town, silly, in Illinois.”

“That’s the stupidest name for a town I ever heard.”

“What difference does it make what it’s called? Anyway, my aunt owns this restaurant near the university there, and she offered me a job waitressing. Tips are good. Says I can make two-fifty a week after taxes if I hustle, which is a lot more than I make at the Anvil.”

“You’re not taking the job, are you?”

“Of course I am. I’d be crazy not to. It’s just what I’m looking for.”

Kurt tried to maintain a guise of consideration. “But if you want to work in a restaurant, there’s plenty around here. Why go all the way to Carbontown?”

“That’s dale. Carbon dale . And that’s the point—getting out of Tylersville.”

Her scorn for Tylersville came with unhesitant ease. Through this he saw how much she truly hated where she lived. The need to object strained in him, but he replied patiently. “Why not hang around here a little while longer? Maybe something good will come up; you never know. Unemployment’s under seven percent, there’re all kinds of jobs in Maryland now. Anyway, you could wind up hating Carbonburg.”

“You’d really piss me off if you weren’t so sincere,” she said. She stood in the dark, slyly tolerant. “But face facts, Kurt. Tylersville isn’t a safe place to live anymore.”

He couldn’t argue with her about that. She was sideswiping him with common sense, cutting him off at every tactical angle. He felt impotent and misplaced, a brain in a stranger’s body.

Goddamn Carbonville. I’ll never see her again.

Through the kitchen window he viewed the moon. It seemed closer to the earth than it should be, its details so refined as to appear fake, not the real moon at all, but an ostentatious facsimile. The stars, too, seemed unreal in the same way, swirls of glittering spillage in the sky. Suddenly his world was the scope of a cold, surrealistic dream. It was true; if she left town, he would never see her again. His spirit would be left mauled, his heart incised down the middle. But what could he say to her? The moon seemed pallid and accusing as an old man’s face; it mocked him. He could feel its pull on the earth and his brain, and he felt lost.

The moment made no sense. He walked over and kissed her. It was a long but not particularly deep kiss, and at first her reaction was no reaction. Then, pressing forward, he slipped his arms around her, and she did the same. He could feel vivid warmth through her nightgown.

How long the contact lasted he couldn’t tell. Dumbly, he realized the kiss was over. He was standing away from her again, leaning against the counter.

“Why did you do that?”

The question seemed regulated, her voice cool and neutral. His hands tingled, like the onset of a strong drink. He saw that she’d held the cigarette as they’d kissed, but now it was burned all the way down.

“Why did you do that?” she asked again.

“I don’t know… I wanted to—no, I had to, if that’s not the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.” But then his words lolled, confusion and embarrassment chopping them away. She wasn’t harassing him, as he thought she might, or dismissing him. He felt disoriented, unsteady, as if standing on the fantail of a swaying ship.

I’ve been making excuses all my life. I will not make excuses now.

“Sometimes I don’t know what to do,” he eventually said. “I don’t know what I want, what I’m doing, where I’m supposed to go. Every time I turn around, another year is gone, and everything is pretty much the same. I think I like that, I like it a lot. If I’ve offended you, as it seems I have, then I hope that—”