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Authors: Brandon Massey
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her.
“Hi yourself,” she said. She smiled flirtatiously. He could feel her gaze on his back as he walked away.
Mark wondered, not for the first time, why his mother had ever married Willie. They’d been married for less than a year when his mother died; soon after they wed, Willie was fired from his job, leaving his mother to pay the bills. Now, only a few month’s after her death, Willie already was seeing other women. It was disgusting.
Mark’s bedroom was the cleanest, quietest area in the house. But tonight, even the sight of his room failed to soothe him.
The manuscript of his first and only book sat in a pile on his desk, beside his computer. He’d spent fourteen months writing and revising the novel, pouring his soul onto the pages. But the rejection letter he’d received was number sixty-three. No one in the publishing business gave a damn.
The beginnings of a headache thumped behind his eyes. He flopped onto his bed and stared at the ceiling, hands folded behind his head.
“I hate this,” he said.
Leaving Illinois State to return home and go to a community college had been a mistake. But a few months ago, as he struggled to deal with his mom’s death, coming back to the familiar house seemed to be the only decision that would enable him to retain his sanity. He’d craved to be around people, places, and things that he knew, loved.
He opened the moon-shaped silver locket that he wore on a chain. Inside, there was a photo of him and his mother together, taken when he was only four years old and she was barely twenty-five. They looked so happy and carefree.
Mom had worn this locket for years. After she died, Mark began to wear it himself. Some days—days when gray clouds of grief hung over him—the locket felt like a lead weight, heavy with cherished memories. But he never slipped it off, no matter how badly he felt. It was his special connection to her, an umbilical cord to her eternal spirit.
“I wish you were here,” he said, gazing at her youthful face. “I need you right now, Mom ... I just don’t know what to do.”
At times like this, he wished that communicating with the spirits of the deceased was a real thing, something that he could do. He longed to talk to his mom again, to hear her soft voice and let her wise words guide him.
He could imagine what she would say to him: Tough it out, honey. Make lemonade out of lemons. Nothing worth having comes easy. Trouble don’t last always. His mom had been a walking encyclopedia of old-fashioned, motivational sayings.
In the room next door, mattress springs began to squeak, rhythmically. Soft female cries of pleasure pierced the air, punctuated by piglike grunts.
Mark’s stomach lurched.
He closed the locket. He reached for the portable CD player on the nightstand, slipped on the headphones, and switched on some music. Stevie Wonder’s soulful voice piped into his ears, singing, “Ribbon in the Sky.”
Mark fell asleep thinking about the doorway in the supply closet, wondering where it led ... and if it was somewhere better than here.
The next evening at work, Mark closed the door to the supply closet behind him, and moved the boxes away from the wall to give him an unobstructed view of the portal.
He was on his break. He’d finished cleaning half of the restrooms for his shift and had left the wheeled cart on the other side of the building. He hadn’t come here to get supplies. He’d come here to explore.
He’d brought a heavy-duty, twenty-five-foot measuring tape with him, which he’d found in Willie’s toolbox at home. (In Mark’s opinion, Willie’s only redeeming quality was his skill at fixing things.) He’d brought a big yellow flashlight, too.
Mark approached the wall. Kneeling, he pressed the panel.
As before, it was ice-cold to the touch. But the soft hiss came, and then the bricks slid away into darkness, revealing the doorway. Frosty air drifted from the entrance.
Taking care to avoid crossing the
“Hi yourself,” she said. She smiled flirtatiously. He could feel her gaze on his back as he walked away.
Mark wondered, not for the first time, why his mother had ever married Willie. They’d been married for less than a year when his mother died; soon after they wed, Willie was fired from his job, leaving his mother to pay the bills. Now, only a few month’s after her death, Willie already was seeing other women. It was disgusting.
Mark’s bedroom was the cleanest, quietest area in the house. But tonight, even the sight of his room failed to soothe him.
The manuscript of his first and only book sat in a pile on his desk, beside his computer. He’d spent fourteen months writing and revising the novel, pouring his soul onto the pages. But the rejection letter he’d received was number sixty-three. No one in the publishing business gave a damn.
The beginnings of a headache thumped behind his eyes. He flopped onto his bed and stared at the ceiling, hands folded behind his head.
“I hate this,” he said.
Leaving Illinois State to return home and go to a community college had been a mistake. But a few months ago, as he struggled to deal with his mom’s death, coming back to the familiar house seemed to be the only decision that would enable him to retain his sanity. He’d craved to be around people, places, and things that he knew, loved.
He opened the moon-shaped silver locket that he wore on a chain. Inside, there was a photo of him and his mother together, taken when he was only four years old and she was barely twenty-five. They looked so happy and carefree.
Mom had worn this locket for years. After she died, Mark began to wear it himself. Some days—days when gray clouds of grief hung over him—the locket felt like a lead weight, heavy with cherished memories. But he never slipped it off, no matter how badly he felt. It was his special connection to her, an umbilical cord to her eternal spirit.
“I wish you were here,” he said, gazing at her youthful face. “I need you right now, Mom ... I just don’t know what to do.”
At times like this, he wished that communicating with the spirits of the deceased was a real thing, something that he could do. He longed to talk to his mom again, to hear her soft voice and let her wise words guide him.
He could imagine what she would say to him: Tough it out, honey. Make lemonade out of lemons. Nothing worth having comes easy. Trouble don’t last always. His mom had been a walking encyclopedia of old-fashioned, motivational sayings.
In the room next door, mattress springs began to squeak, rhythmically. Soft female cries of pleasure pierced the air, punctuated by piglike grunts.
Mark’s stomach lurched.
He closed the locket. He reached for the portable CD player on the nightstand, slipped on the headphones, and switched on some music. Stevie Wonder’s soulful voice piped into his ears, singing, “Ribbon in the Sky.”
Mark fell asleep thinking about the doorway in the supply closet, wondering where it led ... and if it was somewhere better than here.
The next evening at work, Mark closed the door to the supply closet behind him, and moved the boxes away from the wall to give him an unobstructed view of the portal.
He was on his break. He’d finished cleaning half of the restrooms for his shift and had left the wheeled cart on the other side of the building. He hadn’t come here to get supplies. He’d come here to explore.
He’d brought a heavy-duty, twenty-five-foot measuring tape with him, which he’d found in Willie’s toolbox at home. (In Mark’s opinion, Willie’s only redeeming quality was his skill at fixing things.) He’d brought a big yellow flashlight, too.
Mark approached the wall. Kneeling, he pressed the panel.
As before, it was ice-cold to the touch. But the soft hiss came, and then the bricks slid away into darkness, revealing the doorway. Frosty air drifted from the entrance.
Taking care to avoid crossing the
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