Bennett Durkan

The July Editor's Pick Story is by Bennett Durkan

Please feel free to email Bennett at: rev.bennett@gmail.com

BEING FOLLOWED
by Bennett Durkan

It was around 2:00 AM when I realized someone was following me. I had been watching my feet, watching the way the ground seemed to move under my motionless shoes. An off-beat sounded in the middle of my stride. It was no more than a gentle thud. The sound—or the acknowledgement if it—caused me to tilt me ear. I didn’t know how long I had been followed, but I could feel eyes on me. I grabbed my collar and pulled my jacket tighter.

The early morning kissed my cheeks. Under the orange illumination of a streetlamp, I discerned the mist of my breath. My footsteps echoed down the block and around the corner. I didn’t, or couldn’t hear, the footsteps of the person trailing me. But, the back of my neck itched.

I walked to the corner then stopped. The person hid in the shadows, maybe inside the alcove to a doorway. Gawking around like the traveler I was would be too suspicious. I pulled a pack of Marlboros and a plastic Bic lighter, from my pocket. The cigarette hung limp from my lips as I lit it. When I exhaled, I blew the smoke over my shoulder. Whoever had been following had stopped. The sidewalk stretched behind me, until another street cut it short. The orange spots under the streetlamps were empty and the shadows stood still.

Streetlamps created darker spots in the darkness. In this small section of Jasper, I saw shadows on every surface. A shadow even sat below me and writhed with my twisting torso. Maybe another one moved. Maybe it was just tiredness affecting my vision. Still, some of these shadows were deep enough to hide a full grown man, or something larger. Tobacco mixed with the air. The smoke dispersed.

East Texas is a desert in which trees managed to survive. And this town is a graveyard with the buildings as headstones lined up in neat rows. The names and addresses above the doors made nice epitaphs. Smoke drifted to the “Willows & Son” sign hanging over my head. I didn’t know what service they provided, and I couldn’t spy through the window. Their signs looked old.

Bad things have happened here, and it is the type of place one would expect citizens to have dark secrets. Drivers, passing through to Louisiana, would look out their windows and see an old man walking down the sidewalk, letting their cane lead the way. These drivers would then realize that that old man had a whole history and that he would not tell it.

The person who had been stalking me didn’t move. Content that he must have either given up or was too smart for my trick, I threw down the cigarette and crushed it under foot. Cinders burst red for a flashing instance before becoming ash. The stop lights protecting the order of the intersection weren’t going to change. I hopped off the curb and crossed.

The sewer grate cracked. If I hadn’t already dropped my cigarette, it would have fallen from my open jaw. I know temperature influences size, causing expansion or contraction. But sometimes random cracks sound less like metal shrinking and more like a foot stepping on it. My step slowed, not enough for a bystander to see, and I listened for more. The fact that this crack was not followed by another proved that my follower knew that I knew.

Nearing the Motel 6, able to see its sign down the street, I pulled my jacket tight across my back one more. This time I chose to forgo subtleness. I pivoted and confronted the scenery behind me. A night like any other reached over the streets and intersections. I saw no movement in the shadows or near the corners. A person couldn’t have hidden that quickly. It had to be a thing following me. My breath caught in my throat. Soles ground on the concrete.

*****

Kevin handed me a glass of water. My head still swam and the slight burn of alcohol rested on the back of my throat. The few other guests, whose names I never bothered to learn even after shared introductions, mingled and told anecdotes. They talked about their mutual works, as obvious by their stiff posture and over exaggerated had gestures. Hands flailed above heads then pulled in close once it was remembered liquids flowed and spilled. The music had ended, and the party was dying.

“Here you go,” Kevin said, loud to be heard over the party, as I accepted the glass.

“Thanks, man.” The water was common tap water, with minute flavors, changing depending on the geography. This brand contained the stiffness of sulfur. I leaned back on the couch, balancing the glass on the armrest. My foot pushed an empty champagne bottle. “I still don’t know why you chose this place.”

“Why not?” Kevin looked down at me with one corner of his lips pulled into a smirk. “I mean, part of the reason is that it’s close to where we are doing are research. Plus, this place has history.” He patted a passing shoulder and said something.

“So do text books. Doesn’t mean you live in them.” Undergrads and misguided grad students surrounded me. I sank into the couch as much as the resistance allowed. The students, the handful of them and their guests separated into circles of threes and fours. One guest moved between circles like an electron jumping from atom to atom. The apartment was crowded, stifling.

“That makes no sense.”

“Shut up.”

“Though, this place does seem like it would have its share of spooks. Maybe ghosts or killers stalk the streets, looking for the wayward tourist.” He wiggled his fingers and I gave him a look.

“So, what’s it like in Houston? Still dating that girl? Allison?” Kevin sat down on the couch next to me, leaving enough buffer space. The mood was winding down. Artificial lights were too bright and the guests were sobering up, remembering that they were tired.

“I told you, everything’s fine.”

“C’mon. No one drives several hours just to attend some lame graduate student’s party. What’s been happening?”

“Just shut up.”

Kevin sat next to me and said nothing. He just threw his arm across the back, leaned his head back, and didn’t say anything. I drowned myself in the glass of mineral laden tap water.

*****

The waves of my breath floated down the street, disappearing into the darkness. My heart thumped in my ears as I turned away. My soles echoed in embarrassing slaps against the sidewalk with my quickened pace. I kept my head straight, no deviation from the path.

That sound, that footstep between my own footsteps returned. If I looked back I would catch my stalker, but then it would have no reason to continue stalking. At the moment it was fine following and doing no more. I held my breath, my heart rate increasing in my ears. The amplified thumps threatened to deafen me. But, I could still hear an extra footstep. Closer. They were getting closer.

The bright red 6 grew larger and taller.

After a serious of jagged, right angle turns. I reached the motel’s lobby. The lights beyond the glass doors dissolved my blinders. A quick glance over the shoulder revealed nothing, but my hand gripped the handle harder than needed. An extra degree of effort was needed to uncurl my fingers.

The lights in the lobby were different. They produced a cleaner hue. I looked around the room. It was wide and open, with a counter and two arm chairs to the left. The attendant wasn’t in attendance. There was no room for shadows in here. The light reached the corners. The thumping in my ears subsided and the sudden compression of my lungs softened. I patted my pockets, finding my keys in my jacket. When I held them in my open palm, I sighed and smiled.

I saw my room from the lobby, up the stairs and a few doors down from the ice machine. I charted my path and examined around the parking lot.  My Hyundai waited alone, light from the lobby glinting of the curves. I couldn’t see under or behind the vehicle.

I closed my hand around the keys. The shapes dug into my skin. I rushed against the door, and rushed to the stairs. I hit the thin metal handrail with my shoulder. It vibrated.

The key clicked and scratched into the lock. When the tumblers were ready to tumble, the same sensation prickled on my shoulders. My hand, still holding the key which still needed to be turned, shook. I place my other hand on top of it and squeezed. My vision began to tunnel. Shadows stretched and pulsed, alive on whoever wore them. The door opened with a rusted scream.

Once through the threshold, the door slammed. I severed the connection between me and whoever or whatever had been stalking. Just in time. The concussion of the door shook the room, and I knew if there were other guests they would’ve been disturbed from their deserved slumber. Exhausted and relieved, I fell to the floor and against the door. I breathed deep.

Outside, just on the other side of this door, a light shined above the door and onto the banister within arm’s reach. If I looked through the pinhole, I could see it all with a fisheye’s bulge. I had seen enough motels to know that the pattern repeated for each room. But I had to breath deep. However, if I looked out, I might see the face, the eye enlarged, looking back.

*****

Kevin smiled, like I caught him telling a joke before he could get to the last words of the punch-line. Over his shoulder the party, shindig, bash, soiree, or whatever it was called pulsed. A few of the guests had already poured libations under the percussive bass-centric music. I didn’t recognize the tune, but, then again, it didn’t sound indicative of mainstream. Kevin stepped aside, gestured me inside.

Since I had known him, Kevin wasn’t the most wild of a child. The few guests in attendance may make up the majority. The apartment was cramped or cozy, as it would be described in a listing. The few party goers, people who I didn’t recognize and figured they were helping Kevin with his research and their friends, filled the sitting room.

“So,” Kevin said, standing beside me, “how have you been?” He led me to the refrigerator. The chilled container was sparse. I was able to spot some luncheon meat and some green apples along with the drinks for the party.

“Pretty good.”  He looked over his shoulder. I shook my head, and he closed the door. Across the room dividing partition, the guests erupted into laughter. “Things have been slow. The usual.”

The apartment had a worn out-look, not to be confused with a charming lived-in look. The carpet was faded in spots, stained in others with spots of unidentifiable materials. I guessed, and hoped, the black and brown spots were once foodstuff before being absorbed. A few amber drops of beer spilled from a young, short bearded man’s bottle. The young lady standing opposite him didn’t seem to notice. What’s one more stain?

As Kevin and I exchanged pleasantries—the common “what’s new,” “how’s the family,” “any upcoming plans”—the corners of the room and the areas behind the couch, table, and refrigerator diverted my attention. Most of the answers I gave were simple reactions. The cupboard door hung ajar, letting the shadows leak out. The space behind the TV was narrow without room for illumination. A knock on the door, and more guests, more faces I didn’t recognize, entered.

“Yeah the research isn’t to find bears in the area,” Kevin resumed after manning the door, “but to not find them. Does that make sense?”

“Sure, I guess.” The bedroom door was ajar. There was a sliver of space, enough for a single eye to peer from. The bathroom door, it was where I would put a bathroom were I designing an apartment, was closed. Doors should either be wide open or close. Never ajar.

I shook my empty bottle and gestured to the fridge. Kevin nodded. I passed through the veils of uninteresting conversations. These were people who had lives that extended beyond this apartment. I relieved the fridge of one more beer.

*****

I lost track of time, which makes it sound like I was interested in telling time. When my lungs returned to their natural activity, I moved away from the door. Street lights and the lonesome bulb from outside filtered around the edges of the curtain, creating a dim twilight in the hotel room. There was a green light above the television, and a red one blinking on the smoke detector. From my position of the floor, I couldn’t see it, but I knew there was a digital clock next to the bed. The features and shapes of the room were as soft as a dream.

Slow in my approach, I grabbed the curtain, thick and in poor taste. Like a melancholic game show host, I threw open the curtain. An arm length’s away was the handrail and beyond that were the dead east Texas streets. At least this part of the world, the immediate around me, was unoccupied. There was no face looking back at me, hiding in the shadow of my reflection. With a focused sigh, like the hiss of carbonation in a bottle, I eased the curtain closed, leaving enough space.

Southwest of here, a bed with one vacant pillow, being used by one long strand of red hair, waited. A pink slip sat on the table next to it. It was signed and notarized by HR. They should have waited in Houston.

When I clicked on the bedside lamp, the room shrunk. The room was manageable. I noticed the landscape painting above the bed. The sight restored a minor bit of comfort. The painting, no doubt repeated from room to room, wouldn’t be seen in abnormal surroundings. I sat down on the edge of the bed, kicked off my shoes, and removed my jacket.

For a while, I mulled over some thoughts of watching TV. The reflection of me on the bed was distorted, rounded. I raised my hand to wave at the smaller version of me. The image moved, but slower and less distinct. I turned my head, my whole head, to the remote under the lamp. It felt far away and getting farther. It was late or early in the morning. I fell back on the bed. With my eyes closed I couldn’t see the image on the screen or what should have been an accurate representation of the room.

*****

The drive hadn’t been inspiring. Civilization faded into abandoned shacks with caved-in roofs set a distance from the highway, back to civilization again. The phone call, the invitation, which had prompted the drive, still played in my mind.

“‘You should come,’” I said, doing my best impression of Kevin. His voice had sounded far away when he called. It’ll be a small get-together, he said, to celebrate the research. That is if I wanted to come.

The night he called, I remembered, I had been lying on my bed. I dropped the cellphone on the bedside table and laid my head on my table. Next to me, was the other pillow, still dented. From it, I found one strand of hair, longer than mine. I pinched it and held it up. I closed my eyes and sighed. I opened my fingers and let the hair fall wherever it wanted.

The radio didn’t offer much company, static coming and going as a sitcom neighbor with a catchphrase does. By the time I decided to give up on finding a station, I pulled into town. There was no fanfare. One second I’m on the highway, the next I’m driving into a downtown which was spread out, spacious.

I scrutinized the motel from the safety of my windshield. The place didn’t look bad, maybe even the kind of establishment that would pride itself on good ol’ fashion service. I removed my keys from the ignition and looked into the rearview mirror, almost expecting to see a hitchhiker in a fedora. Just to be safe I looked over my shoulder. Seeing the road I had just driven. Still…

It was getting late. The shindig would be starting soon. Although, the invitation had been vague about time constraints. I opened the door, stood at the door at the threshold but didn’t enter. I just sort of looked before tossing my bag to wherever it may land. The apartment shouldn’t be far away. Kevin did say that everything was in walking distance to everything else. Setting out down the stairs, across the bare parking lot, I straightened my jacket. The town slept, breathing in slow patterns as it dreamed.

*****

My cellphone, ringing and vibrating in my pocket, jolted me awake. I found the device but not in time. Kevin had called and hung up. Daylight peeked through the space between the curtains. I will call back, when I feel more awake.

The pillow next to me remained untouched. It was as clean as I expected a motel pillow to be. The bedside table held the lamp and TV remote, but nothing else. I stretched and yawned. I threw my legs over the side, sitting up. When I looked at the television, I swore I saw the miniature version repeat the action but a few seconds slower. I gripped the covers.

Brushing my teeth, leaning over the sink, I avoided eye contact with my reflection. If I were to look into my eyes, I know my reflection would do something, blush or smile, that I didn’t. One hand gripping the edge of the bowl, my elbow shook. The drain was dark, with enough space for a slim appendage belonging to a horror to slither up. I spat and turned on the faucet. The rush of water soothed.

Across the room, on the table beside the bed, my cellphone rang again. It made a rumbling half-circle because of the vibrating function. Between the phone and me, was the bathroom door, ajar. A tap of the foot fixed the problem. The door swung and hit against the wall. Too bad the shower curtain was drawn, allowing a shade or what had once been human a place to linger. I covered the distance to the bed in one step.

By the time I reached the phone it stopped, but that was okay. I will call him back when I feel more awake. I pulled the curtain open now I could see the river of pickup trucks and four door sedans. Beyond the door, outside and down the road, more corners and doors and shadows thrived. I could feel them on my back like a sharp nail.

I will call him back when I feel more awake. For the moment, I will never leave this manageable room.

Bennett Durkan is a graduate of Stephen F. Austin, where he earned a master’s in English. His poetry has appeared in Psaltery & Lyre, The Red River Review, FIVE2ONE Magazine and Ikleftiko. His fiction has appeared in The Piney Dark, Sassafras, and Scapegoat.