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Authors: Nathan Ballingrud
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he’d found her last night, staring into the screen. She seemed unhurt: no blood, no signs of distress of any kind. Her hair was loose and unwashed, and she was dressed for bed. Something in the room stank.
“Carrie. Jesus Christ. Why didn’t you answer?”
She did not seem to register his presence.
“Carrie?”
On the screen was the same image: the camera, still moving through the dark, wet hole. This time she’d turned the sound on: a distant, hollow wind, like putting your ear to a seashell. The fear settled back over him with a fluttering silence, birds settling onto a tree. He put his hand on her forehead: she was clammy and sweaty. He realized with a twist of despair that the stink was coming from her: she had pissed herself, and even now sat in a puddle of it.
“Oh fuck.”
Facing her, turned away from the rest of the apartment, he felt as though he was standing with his back to the mouth of a bear cave.
Turning around, he said, “Who’s here, baby? Is anybody else here?”
He left her sitting there, crept into the kitchen and turned right into the living room. Enough ambient light leaked in through the windows that, after standing there for a moment, he could be reasonably sure it was empty. But the door to the bedroom loomed beyond it, and no light intruded there.
Will clicked on a lamp in the living room. Shadows leaped and scattered, settling immediately into a picture of order and familiarity. The couch, the TV, the framed film stills Carrie prized so much. Light wedged into the bedroom.
“If anybody’s in there, you need to come out right now. I swear to God, man. This is no joke.”
When no one stepped forth, Will crossed the bedroom’s threshold, peering in. The bed was unmade and the sheets were rumpled, which was typical. Neither of them had ever gotten into the habit of making it. A small pile of dirty laundry coiled in one corner of the room, spilling from a full basket. A comic book lay on the floor near his side of the bed, stacked notebooks and textbooks on hers. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
He flicked on the light switch, then knelt down and peered under the bed.
The apartment was empty.
Will sat on the bed, the tension unspooling from him in a long, shaky exhalation. He thought of Carrie sitting there still, in a puddle of her own urine, staring at that stupid loop on her computer. He thought of her sending him these pictures. Maybe she was losing her mind. He thought he recalled her mentioning that one of her grandmothers had suffered from some kind of mental breakdown, living out a lonely end in a mental institution. Maybe that kind of thing ran in the family. He didn’t know.
A terrible, gaping sadness opened in him, and he put his thumb and forefinger to his eyes to stifle the sudden tears.
The title of the book she’d been looking for floated across his thoughts, unbidden and unwelcome: The Second Translation of Wounds.
His phone chimed in his pocket, startling him so badly he jumped.
Garrett’s name was on the screen.
“Hello?”
That voice seeped out again: a shard of bone pushed through a throat. A welling of blood. Was it Garrett himself? The thing that had ripped out his teeth? Or something that had crawled out of him? Will listened with tears spilling from his eyes.
C ARRIE COULD NOT be coaxed from her chair until he shut her computer down, eliciting from her a small sound of loss. Her eyes, bloodshot and dry, finally closed. She sagged into him, utterly exhausted, and he held her head to his shoulder, wrestling to maintain his own outward calm. Inside, it felt as though pieces of himself were sliding away, like an iceberg calving into the sea. He was hunched behind a panic wall; just beyond it, he knew, must be a correct response. Something simple and easy. But there was also a howling chaos there, a black tumble of fear, and he couldn’t face that just yet. He knew, in a distant way, that he was in shock, but he didn’t know how to find
“Carrie. Jesus Christ. Why didn’t you answer?”
She did not seem to register his presence.
“Carrie?”
On the screen was the same image: the camera, still moving through the dark, wet hole. This time she’d turned the sound on: a distant, hollow wind, like putting your ear to a seashell. The fear settled back over him with a fluttering silence, birds settling onto a tree. He put his hand on her forehead: she was clammy and sweaty. He realized with a twist of despair that the stink was coming from her: she had pissed herself, and even now sat in a puddle of it.
“Oh fuck.”
Facing her, turned away from the rest of the apartment, he felt as though he was standing with his back to the mouth of a bear cave.
Turning around, he said, “Who’s here, baby? Is anybody else here?”
He left her sitting there, crept into the kitchen and turned right into the living room. Enough ambient light leaked in through the windows that, after standing there for a moment, he could be reasonably sure it was empty. But the door to the bedroom loomed beyond it, and no light intruded there.
Will clicked on a lamp in the living room. Shadows leaped and scattered, settling immediately into a picture of order and familiarity. The couch, the TV, the framed film stills Carrie prized so much. Light wedged into the bedroom.
“If anybody’s in there, you need to come out right now. I swear to God, man. This is no joke.”
When no one stepped forth, Will crossed the bedroom’s threshold, peering in. The bed was unmade and the sheets were rumpled, which was typical. Neither of them had ever gotten into the habit of making it. A small pile of dirty laundry coiled in one corner of the room, spilling from a full basket. A comic book lay on the floor near his side of the bed, stacked notebooks and textbooks on hers. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
He flicked on the light switch, then knelt down and peered under the bed.
The apartment was empty.
Will sat on the bed, the tension unspooling from him in a long, shaky exhalation. He thought of Carrie sitting there still, in a puddle of her own urine, staring at that stupid loop on her computer. He thought of her sending him these pictures. Maybe she was losing her mind. He thought he recalled her mentioning that one of her grandmothers had suffered from some kind of mental breakdown, living out a lonely end in a mental institution. Maybe that kind of thing ran in the family. He didn’t know.
A terrible, gaping sadness opened in him, and he put his thumb and forefinger to his eyes to stifle the sudden tears.
The title of the book she’d been looking for floated across his thoughts, unbidden and unwelcome: The Second Translation of Wounds.
His phone chimed in his pocket, startling him so badly he jumped.
Garrett’s name was on the screen.
“Hello?”
That voice seeped out again: a shard of bone pushed through a throat. A welling of blood. Was it Garrett himself? The thing that had ripped out his teeth? Or something that had crawled out of him? Will listened with tears spilling from his eyes.
C ARRIE COULD NOT be coaxed from her chair until he shut her computer down, eliciting from her a small sound of loss. Her eyes, bloodshot and dry, finally closed. She sagged into him, utterly exhausted, and he held her head to his shoulder, wrestling to maintain his own outward calm. Inside, it felt as though pieces of himself were sliding away, like an iceberg calving into the sea. He was hunched behind a panic wall; just beyond it, he knew, must be a correct response. Something simple and easy. But there was also a howling chaos there, a black tumble of fear, and he couldn’t face that just yet. He knew, in a distant way, that he was in shock, but he didn’t know how to find
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