Read Online The Visible Filth by Nathan Ballingrud - Free Book Online
Authors: Nathan Ballingrud
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breaking up the fight the other night, the masculine dream he’d allowed himself to indulge in, was gone. He just stood there, ashamed and ineffectual, tears gathering in his eyes. Alicia took his arm again, shooting a dark look at Will, and led him away. This time, he didn’t resist. They pushed through the door, into the world outside.
“Was he crying?” somebody said, and there was a snicker. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, people returned to their own little endeavors. The noise rose, the pool balls clicked, and people approached the bar with money in hand. The night’s slow engine began to turn once again.
Derek and his partner finished their pool game and left, waving amiably on their way out the door.
Will felt cheated, somehow. That old hollowness reasserted itself, and he felt a vertiginous pull, as though he stood on its crumbling edge. The image Carrie had been looking at the night before came back to him: the wet, black tunnel, and the silent, gliding passage through it to an unfathomable end.
Something waited down there.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, ready to dial her.
There was already a message waiting for him. A text from Carrie. Two of them. He quickly slid it open.
I think something is in here with me.
The next was a picture: their own apartment. Their own bedroom. The lights off. A man sitting on the edge of their bed, facing the camera. His arms rested loosely between his legs, and he was buried in shadow. His face seemed somehow misshapen. Will felt his gut clench, felt adrenaline spike in his body. He was breathing hard. His hands shook. He tapped the picture to bring it to the fore, and enlarged it. Squinted at it.
We left you a little present.
A wave of nausea passed over him, and he felt something hot crowd the back of his throat. He stepped out from behind the bar without really thinking about what he was doing. He pushed his way through the crowd. His chest was too tight, he could barely breathe. Somebody called out to him.
“Watch the bar!” he said back. He didn’t care who.
In seconds, he was in his car and speeding through the narrow streets, slamming through potholes and across cracked pavement bucked up over the roots of oaks, gunning through intersections. Aware of his recklessness even in the heat of his own panic, he had the stray thought that some kindly angel must be watching over him, shepherding him safely home.
T HE APARTMENT WAS quiet, the windows dark. Carrie’s car was still parked out front. He didn’t know how long she’d been home. Wishing for a gun for the first time in his life, Will sprinted across the street and crept quietly to his own front door. He pressed his ear against it, trying to siphon out the sound of the occasional passing car, the sound of the leaves rustling in a light wind. He was pretty sure it was quiet inside. He tested the knob to see if the door was locked. It was.
So much for sneaking up on the intruder.
Twisting his key in the lock, he grit his teeth at the hard thunk of the bolt sliding back. He pushed the door open while remaining outside.
The lights were out. Nobody came to answer his presence.
“Carrie?”
Still nothing.
“Is anybody in here? Come on out.”
By this time, anger had occluded the fear. Someone had come into his house. With Carrie here. The words of that college kid tolled in his skull like funeral bell.
He strode in quickly, flipping on the lights. Two roaches scurried across the floor to hide in a deep crevice between the wall and the floorboards. “Carrie! Are you in here?”
Passing through the kitchen, he yanked open the cutlery drawer so forcefully that it hung from its runners like something disemboweled, spilling half of its contents onto the floor in a bright clatter. He retrieved a chef’s knife from the pile, clutched it hard, and kept walking.
The familiar computer screen bleed of light seeped from Carrie’s study. He strode to the entrance and there she was, as
“Was he crying?” somebody said, and there was a snicker. Then, as if a switch had been flipped, people returned to their own little endeavors. The noise rose, the pool balls clicked, and people approached the bar with money in hand. The night’s slow engine began to turn once again.
Derek and his partner finished their pool game and left, waving amiably on their way out the door.
Will felt cheated, somehow. That old hollowness reasserted itself, and he felt a vertiginous pull, as though he stood on its crumbling edge. The image Carrie had been looking at the night before came back to him: the wet, black tunnel, and the silent, gliding passage through it to an unfathomable end.
Something waited down there.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, ready to dial her.
There was already a message waiting for him. A text from Carrie. Two of them. He quickly slid it open.
I think something is in here with me.
The next was a picture: their own apartment. Their own bedroom. The lights off. A man sitting on the edge of their bed, facing the camera. His arms rested loosely between his legs, and he was buried in shadow. His face seemed somehow misshapen. Will felt his gut clench, felt adrenaline spike in his body. He was breathing hard. His hands shook. He tapped the picture to bring it to the fore, and enlarged it. Squinted at it.
We left you a little present.
A wave of nausea passed over him, and he felt something hot crowd the back of his throat. He stepped out from behind the bar without really thinking about what he was doing. He pushed his way through the crowd. His chest was too tight, he could barely breathe. Somebody called out to him.
“Watch the bar!” he said back. He didn’t care who.
In seconds, he was in his car and speeding through the narrow streets, slamming through potholes and across cracked pavement bucked up over the roots of oaks, gunning through intersections. Aware of his recklessness even in the heat of his own panic, he had the stray thought that some kindly angel must be watching over him, shepherding him safely home.
T HE APARTMENT WAS quiet, the windows dark. Carrie’s car was still parked out front. He didn’t know how long she’d been home. Wishing for a gun for the first time in his life, Will sprinted across the street and crept quietly to his own front door. He pressed his ear against it, trying to siphon out the sound of the occasional passing car, the sound of the leaves rustling in a light wind. He was pretty sure it was quiet inside. He tested the knob to see if the door was locked. It was.
So much for sneaking up on the intruder.
Twisting his key in the lock, he grit his teeth at the hard thunk of the bolt sliding back. He pushed the door open while remaining outside.
The lights were out. Nobody came to answer his presence.
“Carrie?”
Still nothing.
“Is anybody in here? Come on out.”
By this time, anger had occluded the fear. Someone had come into his house. With Carrie here. The words of that college kid tolled in his skull like funeral bell.
He strode in quickly, flipping on the lights. Two roaches scurried across the floor to hide in a deep crevice between the wall and the floorboards. “Carrie! Are you in here?”
Passing through the kitchen, he yanked open the cutlery drawer so forcefully that it hung from its runners like something disemboweled, spilling half of its contents onto the floor in a bright clatter. He retrieved a chef’s knife from the pile, clutched it hard, and kept walking.
The familiar computer screen bleed of light seeped from Carrie’s study. He strode to the entrance and there she was, as
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