The April Featured Story is by Chris Reed
Please feel free to email Chris at: c_allen_reed@yahoo.com
THIS MOMENT WILL HAUNT YOU FOREVER
by Chris Reed
Paul knew the man was in the room before he saw him. He was flipping through the pages of his planner to see when his next client was due when he felt an odd sensation, a chill so subtle he almost thought it was his imagination.
He looked up and saw the Native American man standing in the doorway, his hand still clutching the doorknob, pulling the door shut behind him. The man wore blue jeans and a blue denim jacket. His black hair was parted down the middle, and thick braids hung over his shoulders. Paul didn’t recognize him, was sure he’d never seen him before, so he was positive this wasn’t a client of his. He wondered why Jean would have let him in.
“Can I help you?” Paul said.
“I am Jonathan Wood,” the man said. “I am here to discuss a legal matter with you.”
The man reached into his jacket and took out an envelope. He stepped forward, placed the envelope on Paul’s desk, and then stepped back.
“What’s this?” Paul said as he picked up the envelope.
The man was silent, hands at his sides, waiting.
Paul opened the envelope and took out a piece of paper folded in threes. He unfolded the paper and examined the text. It was a court summons. According to the document, this Mr. Wood was being sued for a credit card debt. At the bottom of the paper was Paul’s signature. These cases were so common he must have signed ten of them a week. There were so many dead beats out there who failed to make their credit card payments that Paul was able to specialize in the field. And it was quite lucrative. There were hundreds of dead beats like this Wood fellow out there, but not many had the balls to show up at his office to contest a summons.
Again Paul wondered why Jean had let this guy in. He would give her a good talking to once he got this character out of his office. Yes, a real good tongue lashing was definitely in order. He might even threaten to replace her.
Paul dropped the document onto the desk and said, “So what’s there to discuss, Mr. Wood? You failed to make the payments on your credit card, and now the company wants what’s rightfully theirs.”
“Mr. Schneider,” the man said, “I understand that I was negligent in my responsibilities, but I was hoping you might allow me to explain my situation, and possibly grant me a little extra time to come up with the money.”
Paul sighed. He leaned back in chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and said, “And what situation might this be?”
“Mr. Schneider, I don’t have much money. I had a heart attack and was hospitalized for two weeks. The bill was outrageous, and I’m still trying to pay it. On top of this, I have two grandchildren to care for. Their parents—my son and his wife—were killed in a liquor store robbery, and I took out that credit card to buy them clothes for school. My wife has been ill, and…”
Paul nodded as he pretended to listen to the man’s story. Instead, he was thinking about the thick, juicy steak he planned to devour on his lunch break. He glanced at the clock on his desk. Only ten more minutes.
“… so you see, Mr. Schneider,” the man concluded, “it isn’t that I don’t want to pay the credit card bill, it’s just a bad time for me and my family right now, and I was wondering if—”
“Yeah yeah yeah,” Paul said, sitting up in his chair. “Listen, Mr.— ” He leaned forward and read the name on the summons again. “—Wood. I’m impressed that you came all the way from Montana to speak with me, but this matter is out of my hands now. The only thing that will keep you out of litigation at this point is to supply me with a check for payment in full. Otherwise, I’ll be seeing you in court.”
“Mr. Schneider,” the man said, “I would be happy to pay the original balance on the card, but the extra fees… they are just too much.”
He reached into the pocket of his jacket, and took out a check. He laid it on the desk in front of Paul and said, “Here is a check for the original balance.”
“I’m sorry,” Paul said, pushing the check back towards the man, “but I can’t accept a partial payment. That’s something you should have thought about earlier. I’m afraid at this point it’s all or nothing.”
“I see,” the man said, as he picked up the check and returned it to his pocket.
Paul felt sorry for him, but not sorry enough to waste the next fifteen minutes helping him set up a payment plan. He did, however, have time to offer some quick advice.
“Look, Mr. Wood, I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but maybe your people should stick to running casinos and things of that nature. There’s a pretty penny to be had in the gambling business. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a client waiting.”
Paul reached for the intercom to pretend like he was calling for his next client, but the old man grabbed him by the wrist. He leaned over the desk, his mouth pulled down into a pitiful frown. “Please, Mr. Schneider,” he said. “Please don’t do this.”
Paul yanked his hand away, appalled and disgusted at the man’s display of desperation. “Get out of my office before I call security!” he said.
The man backed away slowly. As he retreated, his right hand reached into the collar of his jacket and pulled out a necklace made of braided rope. On the end was a stone idol that resembled a miniature totem pole. The man took the idol in his old, wrinkled fingers and massaged it with his thumb. He raised his other hand and pointed a gnarled finger at Paul.
“This moment will haunt you forever,” he said. Then he tucked the necklace back under his collar and turned for the door.
Paul watched, stunned as the man walked out of the office and closed the door behind him. What the hell was that thing around his neck? Paul wondered. It reminded him of something from an old horror movie. “Hollywood bullshit,” Paul told himself. “That’s all it was. A prop, a gimmick to give me the willies.” But despite his attempt to make logic of the situation, he found himself shaking.
Paul jumped out of his chair and pushed the button on the intercom. “Jean!” he said. “Why did you let that guy in here without an appointment?”
“What guy?” the receptionist said.
“The guy that just walked out of my office, you moron.”
“Uh… Mr. Schneider, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t see anyone go into your office.”
“Well, did you see him leave?”
“No.”
Paul paused with his finger on the button, unsure of what to say next. He knew he wasn’t imagining things. The man had been here. He could still feel his presence in the room, could still see the impressions his shoes had made on the plush carpeting. Paul could have stood there for the next hour arguing with Jean, but his stomach growled, reminding him it was lunch time.
“Listen,” he said, “just make sure you keep an eye on that door and don’t let anyone in who doesn’t have an appointment, okay?”
“Of course, Mr. Schneider. Hey, are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” Paul said. “Just a little hungry, that’s all.”
“Okay. Well, if you need anything—”
Paul released the button, cutting Jean off. He’d listened to enough talk this morning. Now it was time for that steak.
*****
Again, Paul felt the man’s presence before he saw him. He looked up from his desk, and there he was, standing in the doorway, pulling the door shut behind him.
“I am Jonathan Wood,” the man said. “I am here to discuss a legal matter with you.”
Paul stood up and said, “Look, buddy, I told you there’s nothing I can do for you.”
The man leaned forward and placed an envelope on the desk.
Paul opened it as the man waited patiently. Paul took out the piece of paper, unfolded it, and realized it was the same document the man had given him the day before.
“Mr. Schneider,” the man said, “I understand that I was negligent in my responsibilities, but I was hoping you might allow me to explain my situation, and possibly grant me a little extra time to come up with the money.”
Paul couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It sounded like the exact same request the man had made the day before. The same request Paul had very clearly denied.
“Look—”
“Mr. Schneider,” the man said, “I don’t have much money. I had a heart attack, and was hospitalized for two weeks. The bill was outrageous, and I’m still trying to pay it. On top of this…”
Paul listened, dumbfounded, as the man continued his spiel about his grandchildren and the liquor store robbery and his sick wife. It was the same sob story he’d told Paul during his first visit. As far as Paul could remember, it was word-for-word.
Paul rubbed his temples, positive he was having the worst case of Deja Vu ever.
“Mr. Schneider,” the man continued, “I would be happy to pay the original balance on the card, but the extra fees… they are just too much.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Paul said. “I want you out of here right now.”
As he reached for the intercom, the man’s wrinkled seized his wrist. “Please, Mr. Schneider,” he said. “Please don’t do this.”
As the man leaned toward him, staring at him with his brown, pleading eyes, Paul saw the rope necklace under his collar, and he remembered. Paul snatched his hand away and watched as the man reached into his shirt and pulled the necklace out. Paul stared, unable to blink, unable to speak as the man rubbed the stone idle with one hand and pointed at him with the other. “This moment will haunt you forever,” he said.
“Hey!” Paul shouted as the man turned to leave. “Hey, wait a minute!”
But the old man paid him no heed, and pulled the door shut behind him.
Paul thought about calling Jean on the intercom and reaming her ass good for this one, but he changed his mind. He decided instead to order an extra security guard for the lobby. But it was almost lunch time now, and after the ordeal with the Indian, he figured he could use some fresh air. A nice juicy steak wouldn’t hurt either.
*****
Paul was organizing his desk when the Indian walked in. The sight of him made Paul dizzy. He gripped the arms of his chair to steady himself, thankful to be in his seat or he would have surely fallen down. How? he thought. How can this guy waltz right past security when they were given explicit orders to stop him if he showed up?
“I am Jonathan Wood,” the man said. “I am here—”
“I know why you’re here!” Paul said. “You’re being sued by my law office, and you’re here to beg for mercy!”
But the Indian continued his monologue, oblivious to Paul’s interjection: “—to discuss a legal matter with you.”
Paul slumped back in his seat. “This can’t be happening,” he whispered as he watched the man drop the envelope onto his desk. “This can’t be real.”
He sat frozen in his seat, the last two encounters with the Indian replaying in his head. The Indian stood there, watching him, waiting…
…for me to pick up the envelope and open it, Paul thought. Then he’ll ask for some extra time to come up with the cash… then he’ll tell me about his wife and grandkids…then he’ll…
Paul tried to get up, to get out of the office and get security, but he realized he couldn’t move his body in that direction. It was like an invisible force held him in place. The man stared at Paul, oblivious to his struggle. No matter how hard Paul focused, no matter how he concentrated, there seemed to be only one function he could perform. He picked up the letter, opened it, and dropped the summons onto the desk without looking at it.
“Mr. Schneider,” the man began, “I don’t have much money. I had a heart attack, and…”
Paul’s stomach growled. He looked at the clock and saw that it was almost lunch time. It seemed like it was always almost lunch time. And he was always hungry. Then it hit him, and he remembered. He knew.
I never went to lunch, he thought. Never ordered the extra security, either.
“My wife has been ill,” the Indian said, with same inflection, the same expression, always the same, the same, the same!
*****
Ten years later:
“… so you see, Mr. Schneider, it isn’t that I don’t want to pay the credit card bill, it’s just a bad time for me and my family right now, and I was wondering if—”
The man froze, like a movie that had been paused, staring at Paul, waiting for his cue.
There was a time when Paul had considered slashing his wrists with the letter opener, or jumping out the window and falling fifteen stories to the street below. Anything to break the cycle. But he realized long ago that no matter how hard he struggled to rebel, to break this chain of events, there was only one thing he could do, only one way to respond.
“Yeah… yeah… yeah,” he said.
As the Indian laid the check on his desk, Paul wondered how long it had been since he’d left his office, since he’d been outside and seen the sun shine, seen anyone but the Indian.
It seemed like forever.
Chris Reed is the author of more than fifty short stories. His work has appeared in a variety of small press publications including Black Ink Horror, Tattered Souls, and The New Flesh. Aside from writing, he enjoys browsing thrift stores, eating pizza, and waiting for hockey fights to break out, sometimes simultaneously. He lives in Davison, Missouri, with his photographer wife and their two enigmatic children. His first collection of horror fiction is now available at his official website: www.ChrisReedFiction.com.
