A Noise Downstairs Page 21

  Paul tried to ignore the urgent message from his bladder and closed his eyes again. The two of them had barely moved. Paul was still tucked up against Charlotte, his arm resting over her hip.

  He could hear her breathing softly.

  He almost drifted back into sleep, but he was being forced to face the inevitability of his situation. He was going to have to get up. The question was whether he could disentangle himself from Charlotte without waking her.

  First, he gently raised his arm from her hip and let the comforter settle back onto her. Then he slowly edged his body toward his side of the bed, trying to keep the comforter from dragging across Charlotte.

  At the same time, he turned himself over so that his back was to hers, and he was facing the wall beyond his side of the bed.

  The room was dark, and the moon had shifted in the intervening hours, so there was almost no light slipping through the blinds.

  He wondered what time it was. He was worried it might be four or five in the morning. He did not want it to be that close to daybreak. He was weary, and hoping for several more hours of sleep once he was back under the covers. One or two o’clock, even three, would suit him just fine.

  The clock radio on his bedside table was showing no display.

  That led Paul to wonder if the power was off. If it had gone out, and come back on, the clock would be flashing “12:00.” But right now, there was nothing. It struck him as an odd time for the electrical grid to collapse. There were no high winds, no storm of any kind.

  But hang on.

  There was a discernible glow coming from the direction of the clock radio. As if the display were on, but at a tenth of its usual illumination.

  Lying on his stomach, he extended his left arm, reaching for the clock.

  His hand hit something.

  It was as though he’d bumped into an invisible wall.

  He felt around. Something cold and metallic sat on the bedside table between him and the clock radio. He gave it a slight push, but it did not budge. His fingers scrabbled across the object. One side was smooth, but when his fingers worked around it, he felt countless round pads that recessed slightly at his touch.

  Paul felt a chill run from his scalp to his toes.

  No longer worrying about disturbing Charlotte, he swung his legs out of the bed and fumbled in the dark under the shade of the bedside lamp, his fingers struggling to find the switch.

  He found it, turned the lamp on.

  Paul screamed.

  Still screaming, he slid off the side of the bed and hit the floor on his back. His scream had morphed into actual words.

  “No no no no!”

  Charlotte sat bolt upright in bed, throwing back the covers. “Paul?” She spun around, expecting to see him next to her but seeing only his head above the edge of the bed.

  She saw the look of horror on his face, then followed his gaze.

  And then she screamed, too.

  The typewriter sat there on the bedside table, positioned so that it was facing the bed. Charlotte found three words: “Oh my God!”

  And then the room went silent as the two of them stared at the hunk of black metal.

  “Paul,” Charlotte whispered.

  He did not respond. He did not look at her.

  “Paul,” she said again.

  Slowly, he focused on her. His eyes were wide with shock.

  “Paul, there’s paper in it.”

  It was true. A piece of paper was rolled into the machine. There were two words of type on it.

  Slowly, Paul got to his knees, then stood and approached the typewriter, as though it were a coiled snake ready to strike.

  Without touching it, he peered over the machine to read the message that had been left on the single sheet.

  It read:

  We’re back.

  Forty-Two

  Paul, naked and trembling, took a step back from the typewriter and said, “This is not happening. This is not fucking happening!”

  Charlotte was in the middle of the bed, crouched on her knees, staring disbelievingly at the antique writing machine. “Paul, how did . . . how is this possible?”

  He turned at her and shouted, “I don’t know! This can’t be happening. This has to be a nightmare. I have to wake up. I have to wake up. This can’t be real!” He put his palms to his temples, as though posing for Edvard Munch’s The Scream.

  “I was asleep,” he said. “I was right here. Not two feet away. How could this happen? How did it get in here? It can’t be here. It isn’t here.”

  “Paul, Paul, listen to me. Paul?”

  He looked at her, his eyes wide. “What?”

  “This isn’t a dream, Paul. That fucking thing is here.”

  “How did it get here? How?” He whirled around.

  “Someone’s in the house!” Charlotte said. “Has to be!”

  Paul was not about to argue for a supernatural explanation at this point. He ran from the room, barefoot. Charlotte could hear him tearing down the stairs, shouting.

  “Where are you?”

  Charlotte got off the bed and grabbed a long T-shirt from her dresser.

  “Come out, you son of a bitch!”

  She pulled it on over her head, then picked up Paul’s boxers from the floor and ran for the stairs.

  “You bastard if you’re here I’ ll find you!”

  All the kitchen lights were on by the time she reached it, as well as the light in Paul’s small study. But he was not there. She went down the next set of steps. The front door remained locked, but the inside one to the garage was not. She opened it, found the lights already on.

  Paul was on the far side of the garage, staring into the open blanket box.

  “It was here,” he said. “It was here.” He shook his head angrily. “Shit! Shit shit shit! I forgot to put the books back on top.”

  He pointed to the boxes he had lifted off the blanket box during his last visit in here, when he had checked to make sure the typewriter was where it was supposed to be.

  “It got out,” he said softly with a tone of wonder. “It escaped.”

  “Paul, listen to what you’re saying.”

  “What?”

  “You’re talking about it like it was some . . . some animal or something.”

  “It moved. It moved.”

  “It can’t have moved! That’s not possible! Not by itself!”

  “Well then what the hell happened?”

  Charlotte took a second to calm herself, then said, “Call Dr. White.”

  “What?” It was as though there were some invisible barrier between them keeping him from comprehending her words.

  She crossed the garage, handed him his shorts. “For God’s sake, put these on. It’s cold in here.”

  “It was open,” he said. “The box was open when I came in here.” He looked imploringly at Charlotte. “How did it do that? How?”

  “Paul, I’m begging you.”

  “The front door was locked,” he said. “With a new set of locks!”

  “Yes,” she said quietly.

  He nodded, putting it together. “That pretty much settles it. There was no one in here.” He smiled, as though this were good news. “Don’t you see? No one got in. It did it. It did it on its own.”

  “Paul.”

  His face went red with rage. “What the hell else can it be?”

  She took a step back. “Will you call her, please?”

  “What are you talking about? This is not a fucking psychological problem. I need a goddamn exorcist or something. That thing is possessed. There are people that do that. I’m sure of it. They come in, they get rid of evil spirits. It should be easy in this case. It’s not a house. It’s just that thing.”

  “If you won’t call her, I will.”

  “You’re not getting this at all.”

  “I think I am.”

  She turned for the door, went back into the house. As she was mounting the stairs, the door behind her opened and Paul start
ed coming up after her.

  “You’re not calling her,” Paul said.

  “You can’t stop me.”

  “It’s the middle of the night, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I don’t care.”

  Paul gained on her, grabbed the hem of her shirt to stop her progress.

  “Let go!” Charlotte said, stumbling to her knees. Her left one hit the edge of a stair. “Jesus! You’re hurting me!”

  “Please, please, don’t.”

  He was holding her down, keeping her from moving farther up the stairs. She flung back blindly with her arm, catching Paul in the side of the head. It stunned him enough that he fell over to one side and let go of her. He rubbed at his temple.

  “Oh, God,” she said, realizing where she had struck him. “Is that the same spot where—”

  “It’s okay,” he said, taking his hand away from his head.

  “I’m sorry. But, Paul, you need help.”

  She got back on her feet and managed to reach the kitchen without him attempting to grab hold of her again.

  “I don’t need help,” he mumbled as he followed her.

  “Yes, you do. Help from me, help from Dr. White. We all want to help you.”

  “Christ, don’t be so fucking patronizing. How the hell do you think that typewriter got up two flights and parked itself right next to my fucking head? How do you think that happened?”

  “What did it do, Paul? Did it walk up? Did it fly? Did it use its tiny fucking keys to turn the knob on the garage door? Did it go through walls?”

  “It did something!” he said. “If it didn’t get itself up here how the hell did it happen?”

  Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. “Please don’t make me.”

  “Don’t make you what?”

  “Please don’t make me say it. I’m here to help you, to support you.”

  “Did you feel me get out of bed?”

  “I was drunk,” Charlotte said. “We could have had an earthquake and I wouldn’t have noticed.”

  “Don’t give me that. I was right up next to you. I had my arm around you.”

  “I didn’t feel you get up before you found that thing next to your bed. Maybe you got up one other time. I’m just saying, Paul, we have to consider the possibility . . .”

  “That I’m losing my mind?”

  “I did not say that.” She threw her hands into the air. “I don’t know what to do! What should I do? You tell me.”

  “For starters, you can get that fucking thing out of the house.”

  “Fine. Fine. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it right now.”

  She stormed up the second flight, Paul in pursuit. “What are you going to do?” he demanded.

  “Just watch me.”

  She returned to their bedroom, went straight past the bed to the sliding glass doors that opened onto the small balcony. She first drew back the blinds, then unlocked the door and slid it open. Cool air blew into the room, and the sounds of waves lapping at the beach became a soft soundtrack.

  “Charlotte?” Paul said, standing at the foot of the bed.

  “Get out of my way,” she said, pushing past him.

  She got her fingers under the typewriter and, with a grunt, lifted it off the bedside table.

  “It’s heavy,” Paul said. “Let me help—”

  “I told you, get out of my way.”

  She had to put her back into it. She arched her spine and tilted her head back as she struggled to carry the machine across the room and out the door. Once she reached the balcony, she took a deep breath and heaved the Underwood up and onto the railing, balancing it there.

  Charlotte glanced back at Paul, who stood in the doorway, seemingly mesmerized by her actions.

  “If you think this thing is alive, well, I’m about to kill it,” she said.

  “Wait,” Paul said.

  She looked stunned. “Seriously?”

  “Just . . . wait.”

  The typewriter teetered precariously on the railing. All she had to do was take her hand away and it would plummet to the cement walkway below.

  “I . . . appreciate what you’re doing,” Paul said. “I do. But what if . . .”

  “What if what?”

  “What if they have more to say?”

  Charlotte closed her eyes briefly, signaling she had reached her limit.

  “I know, I know. I’m all for getting it out of here. I am. I’m just not sure it should be smashed into a million pieces.”

  “What, then?” she asked. Before Paul could come up with a suggestion she had one of her own. “I’ll put it in the trunk of my car. And then I’m going to put it someplace where it won’t be found. How about that?”

  Paul considered the offer. “Okay, yes. Okay.”

  “But I’m doing it on one condition. You have to call Dr. White.”

  Paul hesitated. “I don’t know. I don’t see what she can do.”

  “I’ll let this go,” she said, nodding toward the typewriter. “Believe me, I don’t care what happens to this thing. I’m happy to see it busted into a billion bits. You should be, too, but I’m willing to do it your way. Pick up your phone and call her.”

  Paul looked back into the room. With the typewriter off the bedside table, he could see the time. He thought it had to be around three or four but was surprised to see that it was only 1:23 A.M.

  “It’s late,” he protested. “I’ll be waking her.”

  “So what?”

  “I’ll do it. But let’s put that into your trunk first.”

  “Fine,” she said. “But do you think you could carry it? I just about broke my arms getting it this far.”

  Paul came out to the balcony and carefully took the typewriter from Charlotte. He felt a chill as he took the Underwood into his arms, cradling it as though it were some demonic infant.

  “Let’s do this quickly,” he said.

  Charlotte got ahead of him on the stairs, grabbing her car keys from a bowl in the kitchen along the way. She held the front door for him, then hit the button on her remote to pop the trunk on her car. The lid swung open a few inches, and she lifted it the rest of the way.

  Paul leaned over the opening and set the machine onto the trunk floor. There was a small tarp rolled up in there, which he took and draped over the typewriter, as though smothering it. Then he slammed the lid.

  He dusted his hands together and rubbed them on his boxers, as if somehow touching the machine had contaminated him. He turned and looked at Charlotte.

  And fell apart.

  “Oh, God,” he said, and started to cry. He put his hands over his face. “Oh God what is happening, what is happening, what is happening.” The cries turned into racking sobs.

  Charlotte took him into her arms and squeezed. “Let it out,” she said. “Let it out.”

  His arms limply went around her. “I can’t take it anymore, I just can’t.”

  “It’s going to be okay. We’re getting rid of it. It’s in the car.” Charlotte suddenly found herself crying, too. “I’m so sorry.” She buried her face in his shoulder. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  Paul, between sobs, managed to say, “It’s not your fault. There was no way you could know.”

  “I shouldn’t have . . . I never should have . . . it was a bad idea,” she said, weeping. “At the time . . . it seemed . . .”

  “Stop,” Paul said. His breaths had turned rapid and shallow. “I feel, I feel like I’m going to pass out.”

  “Come in. Get in the house.”

  She got him to the door. Once inside, she locked it, checked that the door to the garage was also secure, and the two of them trudged upstairs. She managed to keep him on his feet until they reached the kitchen table, at which point he dropped into a chair.

  He was still crying. He put his elbows on the table, rested his head in his hands.

  “Maybe it’s some kind of nervous breakdown,” he said. “I’m willing to admit that. I don’t know what else it could b
e. I must be . . . I must be doing these things. I have to be.”

  Charlotte had grabbed his phone, which had been recharging from an outlet by the kitchen sink.

  “Dr. White,” she said, handing it to him.

  He nodded, surrendering. He looked at his hand, which was shaking. “You call her. I can’t do it. I don’t even know if I could hold the phone.”

  Charlotte found the number in his contacts, and tapped. “It’s gone to message after three rings,” she said.

  “That’ll be her office phone. Keep calling it. She’ll hear it eventually from the other part of the house.”

  She ended the call, entered the number again. The fourth time, it worked.

  A frantic Anna White answered, “Yes, who is this? Paul, is this you?”

  “I’m so sorry,” Charlotte said after identifying herself. “Paul’s in a bad way. A really bad way.”

  Calmly, Anna asked, “Tell me what’s happening.”

  “He’s shaking, he can’t stop crying. You need to come over. He needs to talk to you, he—”

  “Charlotte, if he’s in a psychotic state, then—”

  “What the hell is that? How am I supposed—”

  “Let me speak to him.”

  Charlotte said to Paul, “She wants to talk to you.”

  He nodded weakly, steadied his hand as he took the phone, and pressed it to his ear.

  “Yes?”

  “Paul?”

  “Yes.”

  “Talk to me.”

  Paul didn’t say anything. He seemed to be struggling to find the words.

  “Paul?”

  Finally, with great effort, he said two words before handing the phone back to Charlotte.

  “Help me.”

  Forty-Three

  By the time Anna White arrived nearly an hour later, Paul had calmed down some. He’d never been a fan of hard liquor, but he’d knocked back a couple of shots of vodka to calm his nerves.

  “I hope that wasn’t a bad thing,” Charlotte said once Anna was sitting at the kitchen table, talking to Paul. For someone who’d been in bed less than an hour earlier, Anna was alert and attentive. She’d come over in a jogging suit, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, her face devoid of lipstick or other makeup.