Chapter 1: Jason and 238

Jason and 238

    Jason Foster sat in his old, beat up Ford Taurus, gazing across the street at the three-story brick apartment building numbered 238. Snow floated and swirled through the glow of the streetlights high above, like moths circling to join the flame in a final dance of death. The snow had been coming and going for hours, slowly building up layers. Some children had labored to create a snowman from the previous day's meager snowfall, and now the creation had become an indistinct lump, somehow becoming sinister, a predator waiting for unwary prey. The night was quiet, other than the hissing of car tires slicing through the slush, and the snow muffled any sound beyond that.

    Jason rolled his window down further so that he could toss his cigarette butt out. His eyes glanced up at the third floor of 238, noting again the light that streamed from the bedroom window of apartment 12. Unexpected light. He'd thought that Mr. Watchtower, the building's manager and handyman, had told him that apartment 12 was still unoccupied.

    Jason turned his head to look over at the large black duffel bag that he'd carefully placed there. Inside were the means to an end.

    An end to all my misery, he thought. An end to over thirty years of fear and pain. One way or another, tonight's the night it ends.

    Jason shot a glare at apartment 12's window again. Someone living there would complicate things severely. He'd come prepared to deal with the manager, creating a detailed plan that would get him inside the storage area where the last of Miranda's possessions were stored, in particular the tools he needed to perform the ritual. He hoped he'd be able to convince Watchtower to let him up inside the apartment as well. He'd brought along a small bribe to entice the man, if need be.

    He reached up and rubbed the frost building up slowly on the inside of his windshield, peering through it to get a better view down the street, and watching for any signs of Watchtower's approach. The man didn't seem to recognize his name from a couple of months ago, despite all that had happened in the apartment building. If he did recognize Jason tonight, that might help him somewhat, knowing his history and connection with the apartment. If he didn't recognize him, then things might be a little more difficult, but that wasn't going to stop him. Nothing was going to stop him.

    I've come this far. It's been hard enough to deal with now that Miranda's gone. But it's something I have to do. For me. And for her. I'm not going to let that thing get to me like it got to her. Autumn's wrong. I am strong enough. And I don't care if it takes me down with it. I'm not going to let it make anymore people's lives miserable. I'm not going to let it win.

    Jason leaned forward and squinted through the frosty windshield, cursing his dying heater. He saw headlights sweep down Manson Drive toward the corner it shared with Whitman Lane. He glanced down at his watch quickly to check the time. Seven o'clock. Jason watched as a dark colored pickup truck eased up to the stop sign at the corner, its turn signal flashing, calling out a warning of sorts. The truck slipped forward and turned left onto the street down the slight incline in front of Jason. He saw it skid slightly, fishtailing, then regain its composure and pull up alongside the curb in front of 238. Mr. Watchtower was punctual, at least.

    Jason rolled up his window, checked that all the others were rolled up as well and the doors locked. He killed the engine as he watched the headlights on the truck flick off. He could make out a dim form behind the wheel of the truck. The driver seemed to be eating something, or perhaps drinking. Jason hoped he hadn't kept Watchtower from his dinner. They might be here awhile. He opened his door and got out, stooping back down to reach across and carefully lift the duffel bag from its resting place. He didn't know if he'd need everything, but there was one particular thing that needed to be handled delicately. He slid his keys into his heavy, dark trenchcoat, making sure they went into his left side pocket. The right side pocket was already occupied with something else, something that Jason hoped wouldn't be needed tonight. He hoped that the money would be more than enough incentive.

    He turned, duffel bag held at his side, and took a moment to appraise 238 one more time. The building was old, red brick. It seemed to be low and squat, despite being three stories. Two outside lights lit the entryway, which had always reminded Jason of an emergency room entrance. There was a short concrete walkway that extended out to the sidewalk. Jason could not remember the neighborhood ever seeming so still, even on the nights that, as a child, he would come rushing out of the front doorway, collapsing on the pavement outside, gasping for breath in between his sobs. He could remember always wondering why there was never anyone who would come to his aid.

    The snow paused for a moment, as if drawing in a deep breath. The streetlights buzzed, droning on like a flat-lining heart monitor.

    A deep bone-rattling shiver ran through Jason. Get moving, he thought, before you lose your nerve. He stole a quick look up and down the street, then moved slowly across it, feeling the slush reach out to find an entrance into his sneakers. It wasn't hard.

He headed over towards the entrance, and he heard the truck door open as he reached the pavement. His sneakers scraped on the pavement as he stepped onto the sidewalk, the sound that echoed off of the building's brick face making Jason think of the lid of a stone coffin being slowly slid aside to reveal its contents.

    Jason waited on the sidewalk and watched as a heavy set man eased himself out of the truck's cab, pausing as he turned back to grab something from the seat. The man tucked whatever it was inside his winter coat. The man was shorter than Jason's six foot two lean frame by half a foot. He took a moment to adjust the dark blue knit hat with a big orange C on it. He closed the truck door and came slowly over to Jason, carefully picking his way through the slush.

    The man smiled as he got up to the sidewalk next to Jason, and gestured to his soaking wet Timberland boots. "Brand new. The wife's gonna kill me."

    Jason forced a small smile to play across his lips and extended his hand. "Mr. Watchtower? Jason Foster."

    George gave him a quick glance of appraisal as he took Jason's hand, gave it a quick pump and released it.

    "I know you, right? Didn't you used to hang out with that woman that used to live here? Miranda Morris?"

    Jason nodded, his brow furroughing slightly at hearing someone else speak her name again. Put the pain aside, he thought quickly.

    "You can call me George, I've always thought Mr. Watchtower comes across as too formal for my taste, ya know, like I'm some stuck up snob or something, I dunno. I've always been more comfortable with just George though. Been doing the maintenance work on this place for, oh, about 8 years or so. Lately, people here have said there have been some problems with the electricity being wonky, but I've got enough experience with that sort of thing to know that there's nothing outwardly wrong with it. Maybe a few bad wires here and there I guess. Nothing that anyone ever wants me to start tearing walls out over. That, and there have been some complaints about cold drafts, but this place has its windows redone about a year after I started taking care of it, and other than that, she seems pretty sealed up tight. She's aged pretty well, for how old she is, and how much use she gets." George seemed to realize he was rambling, "Anyway, what was it you were here for? You mentioned something about wanting to take a look at what's left of Ms. Morris's things, right?

    Jason nodded.

    George eyes darted to the side and he frowned. "That was quite a shocker, what happened there. No one saw it coming. Last person in the world that anyone would think would lose it like that." He shrugged. "I guess they never found any illegal drugs or anything physically wrong with her, you know, like a brain tumor or anything like that. You probably know all that stuff already though."

    "Did you know her very well?" Jason asked.

    George shook his head. "I think I said 'hi' to her a few times, that's about it. Mostly down in the basement, you know, in the laundry room. She seemed pretty nice, and not..." George wiggled his head and rolled his eyes, "...psycho."

    "Psycho?"

    "Sorry, bad word choice. I don't know how close you two were, I remember seeing you a couple of times, I think. I don't mean to be mean, but there was definitely SOMETHING not right in her head. I had two weeks worth of work getting that apartment back into shape. ya know, after the cops were done recording everything for evidence.  It wouldn't have taken me so long if I'd been able to get anyone to stay and help me out, but everyone I asked freaked out over it after they saw it.  She had that place tore up!  Weird symbols and shit painted all over the bedroom walls, some of it I guess might have been blood, I don't know, I just cleaned what I could off of them and repainted the place.  Had to redo the carpet in there too, she had carved a frickin' pentagram, ya know, one of those star circley looking things, yeah, she had carved that right into carpet.  She was into some weird shit, I'll tell ya that!" George paused for a breath, as if to continue on, but he caught the far-away look in Jason's eye. "Sorry, I didn't know if you knew all that stuff, and that probably came out pretty crude. Sorry. I didn't mean any disrespect to her. She was your friend, or maybe even more. I just get to rambling sometimes."

    "We dated briefly," Jason said, thinking that the term dated was a poor representation of the kinship that they had shared.  "We were both part of a book club, kind of.  I had no idea she was into the occult though.  We read mostly best sellers, stuff like that.  Certainly nothing about witchcraft or séances, anything like that."

    George raised his eyebrows, "Well, I sympathize with anyone that knew her before that.  This has got to have been a shock." George motioned towards the entryway. "Well, let's get inside and get you what you need from her storage area.  If we get this done quick, I might have time to stop for a quick beer before the wife starts wondering where I ran off to."

    Jason smiled and followed as George turned and trudged toward the entryway.  George pulled the door open, and held for Jason, then stepped inside the small vestibule where the apartment call panel was.  George punched a few buttons, and there was a quick buzzing sound, then the lock on the inner door clicked open.  As George opened the door and stepped through, Jason noticed the small dent on the wall to the left, on the short flight of stairs leading up to the first floor.  He felt his body begin to remember the terrified state it had been in when he had left that mark there, on his way out the door, two months ago.

    Jason followed George down the half flight of stairs leading to the basement. As they reached the bottom, George turned right, into the large empty area that was lined by the individual storage areas for the building's tenants. Each storage area was the size of a large closet, roughly six feet wide by 10 feet long. They all shared walls with their neighbor, all had wooden frames and plywood walls, although the doors were sturdy, the plywood reinforced with extra wooden beams. They reminded Jason of cages. 

    Jason watched from the doorway as George turned on a small flashlight and crossed to the middle of the room, searching for the single bare light bulb which was the room's only source of powered light. The sunshine that sometimes seeped through the small ground level windows normally only made the room all that much more dreary.

    "Watch your eyes, this light makes a nasty glare down here," George said, as he yanked on the chain.

    Jason averted his eyes, turning to face some of the storage areas. The light came on like a camera flash going off, and the rest of the room became partially illuminated, the gloom slinking back into the corners.

    "Ok," George said, pulling out a small ring keychain. "She was apartment 12, which was...over here...I think."

    As George started walking over to one of the closets across from the room's entrance, he cleared his throat. The sound reverberated off of the grey painted concrete floor.  Jason could see that the door George was headed for had a black letter 2 stenciled on it.

    "She had the number 2 area, 'cause the people that had been living in number 12 before her pretty much just took off one day, left all their crap right where it was and moved out. They only took clothes and small stuff, left all the big heavy stuff right there in the apartment. I talked to the building's owner about what I should do with it all, and he said to move it down here, and if anyone needed some piece of furniture, they could rent it with a deposit.  I guess those people had some sort of sudden religious calling or something, heard they moved to Utah or Idaho, or somewhere like that, ya know, out in the boonies.  Anyway, I guess that makes two former occupants of number 12 that left there, ya know, in a weird way."

    "Did they mess up the apartment too, before they left?"

    George started thumbing through keys, as he stopped in front of the padlocked door, the metallic sound echoed faintly off of the smooth floor. "Nah, other than the outline of a big old cross on the bedroom door, that is. Looks like they stenciled it on there, or I dunno, like it was burned on there.  I just went ahead and painted over it," George said, "Ah, I think this should be the one."

    "How long did they stay?" Jason asked, as he watched George fumble with the key and padlock.

    "Long enough to learn their lesson, I guess." George chuckled, and looked back at Jason with a smirk, but to Jason, there appeared to be a dark twinkle in his eye. "Sorry, bad joke. I'm not for sure, but it probably wasn't more than a couple months."

    George tried clearing his throat again, and again it was a dry hacking sound, it grated like leaves sliding across pavement, or stone. The sound seemed to linger out in the shadow infested corners of the room.

    "You're starting to sound like my dad, it was like he had a constant hack, always seemed to have something stuck in his throat." Jason said.

    George grunted, and shook his head. "Sorry, this is something new for me. Must be the dust down here or something, or maybe getting some mold build up somewhere. I'll have to get it checked out. Don't need health officials coming in here, making a hassle for the tenants...and me!"

    George tried inserting a different key into the padlock, turned it, and the padlock popped open. He removed it from the ring that was screwed to the door, and pulled the door open. The hinges squealed their protest. He stepped back from the open closet, turned to Jason, and shined his flashlight on a few cardboard boxes sitting on the closet floor. "Well, there you go. I guess none of the rest of Ms. Morris's friends and family were much interested in taking this stuff, so whatever you want is yours to keep. Guess she didn't have a will or anything."

    Jason brought out his own flashlight, a small LED one, and stepped forward towards the closet. He felt a sudden wave of nausea slither through his gut, as the glaring lights and twisting shadows played across George's greasy face. He took a moment to make sure the door was all the way open, before stooping down to step inside the closet with the boxes. He heard George shuffle away, clearing his throat again with a grunt. Jason laid the duffel bag down on the floor next to him, as he squatted down in front of one of the boxes. Again, he was careful to not let the contents shift too much. He reached into his inside coat pocket, and pulled out a small folding knife. He carefully cut open the tape that sealed the box shut.

    George sounded like he had headed back over to the room's only entrance, and exit, thought Jason. Jason glanced back over his shoulder in George's direction, in time to see him take a sip out of a small metal flask. George noticed him watching, and raised the flask up with a smile, as if to give cheers. Jason smiled uneasily back at him, and turned back to the box he had just opened.

    He held the flashlight between his teeth, trying to point it down into the box, as he pulled the flaps apart. The contents had been placed in the box with no apparent organization. A couple of light blue bath towels filled the bottom. On top of those lay a pair of neatly folded matching wash cloths, along with a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste, a small box of tampons, a bottle of facial scrub, a stick of eyeliner. Jason smiled as he remembered watching Miranda apply it one day. She had had her back turned to him, leaning over the sink as she tried to get close to her mirror. She had giggled briefly, and Jason asked her what she was making her laugh. She whirled around to face him, letting loose a ferocious growl, and her hands came up like a predator's claws. Her teeth were bared in an insane grin. Her eyes bulged out, opened wide, and Jason saw that she had drawn large black circles around them with the eyeliner, enhancing the effect of her mad eyes. They had both laughed, Jason with his subtle chuckle, Miranda with her joyful child's high pitched laugh.

    The smile slipped off his face as he remembered how similar she had looked the last night she was alive, that grimace of jubilant madness that painted her face shortly before...

    "Do you drink, Mr. Foster?" George asked.

    Jason paused, then took the flashlight from between his teeth. "No. I've quit. I used to though, not too long ago. I let it get out of hand. Really out of hand."

    "Gotcha," George replied. "That's kind of funny, actually. I never used to drink much, until not too long ago. I guess it was around the time your girl moved in, or a little before that maybe. Yeah, ya gotta keep it under control. Ya gotta keep it under control or else it controls you."

    Jason nodded his agreement, and reached down. There was a pill bottle wedged down against the wall of the box. He shined the flashlight on it as he held the bottle up to his eyes. Olanzapine. Jason had no idea what it was for, but he recognized the name of the doctor that had prescribed it. Dr. Crick, her psychiatrist. When did she start taking this?

    Jason placed the bottle back into the box, and folded the flaps shut again. He duck walked forward to the next box. It was a similar size as the other one. "Trash!!!" had been written in big black letters across the top of it. The tape had been applied much more thoroughly to this box, as if someone were trying to insure that nothing inside had a chance of escaping. Jason tried to gently cut through the tape, but his cheap folding knife wasn't up to the task. He had to use much more force, and the tape tore away from the cardboard.

    "Is that one the trash box?" George said.

    "Yes," Jason replied, as he peeled away more of the tape.

    "Yeah, there was something about that one that made me keep it. Why would they tape it up so good if it was just trash, right? I thought I heard something metal in there, but I didn't open it." George took another swig of whiskey and wiped away the excess from his mouth. "I don't know what made me keep it."

    Jason removed the last of the triple layered tape. With the flashlight back in his mouth, he slowly opened the flaps, the letters TRA going one way, and SH!!! going the other.

    He could immediately see what had caused the metal sound that George had heard. Miranda's candle holders. There were eight of them. All of them were covered with melted wax, some red, some white, some black. The white waxed ones still held candles inside them, they had been lit but not burned for long. The black candles were also in a similar condition, although both of them had been broken in half. The red ones had been burned the longest, and they made their holders seem like they'd been dipped in bloody animal fat. They looked exactly how they had looked the last time Jason had seen them, two months ago.

    Jason gently pushed the candlesticks to the side, revealing a couple of Miranda's books, the "spell-books" that she had been using that night. Jason saw dark red drops on the cover of one of them. He couldn't tell if it was wax or blood. He knew that it could've been either or both. He lifted the books by one side, and tried to peek under them. There were photo prints at the bottom of the box. Jason reached down and pulled a few of them out. Him and Miranda. Miranda and him. All of the pictures were of only the two of them together. Smiling, grinning, goofy faces. Her thirty-fifth birthday night out. That concert in the park they had gone to and gotten a contact buzz from the younger group in front of them.

    Jason stared at the most recent one, taken a couple of nights before her death. It was taken with Jason's cheap digital camera. They had been in the kitchen, with the small dining room behind them. Jason had held out the camera in front of them, as they squeezed together to stay in frame, grinning like school children who were getting away with doing something naughty. He stared at her face, her beautiful eyes, scrunched up from her smile. He felt his eyes begin to sting, and he struggled to keep the tears from forming. He quickly slid the picture inside his inner coat pocket, and closed his eyes, willing the emotions back down into their dark home.

    He couldn't stop the thoughts however. How could I have let this happen? I knew what she was trying to do, but I couldn't say no to her. She believed in herself, and in me. I should've stayed by her side. I should've known she wouldn't stop. Now I have to do this alone. Now I have to finish it. For her.

    He returned his attention to the box's contents. He took the book that he remembered she had been using predominantly, the one with that special ritual that she'd wanted them to change try together, and, after quietly unzipping the duffel bag, slipped it inside next to its other occupants. Returning to the trash box, he pushed the last of the photos to the side, revealing the bottom of the box, and then searched through its contents once more.

    The dagger wasn't in the box. He realized suddenly that he'd been foolish to think that it would be. It would still be in police evidence. He sat there contemplating what to do when George spoke up again.

    "The apartment is still unoccupied, if you want to go take a look at it. It's empty, but all cleaned up. I haven't been able to get anyone interested in taking it, I imagine anyone who knows what happened up there might be a little weirded out by it. I can't say why no one else has taken it though. I had a couple look at it the other day, but the woman got all weird all of a sudden, and just like that, they took off. The guys seemed pretty confused. She looked like she was going to puke. I dunno though, it's just an empty apartment to me. Some people are just strange, I guess."

    Jason slowly closed the box, the word "Trash!!!" coming back together. He slid it up against the others, and grabbed the handles of the duffel bag, carefully raising it as he stood up. He stepped out of the closet, and shut the door, and reapplied the lock. Things were going easier than he had expected. He wondered if he'd end up needing the gun in his coat pocket at all.

    He walked back over to George, who was leaning up against the archway. He looked a little misty eyed, but Jason doubted it was for the same reasons that he was. He could smell the alcohol from quite a few feet away.

    "You don't mind? I don't want to keep your wife waiting," Jason said.

    George shook his head and frowned. "Nah, she's probably busy watching one of those crime dramas she loves so much. You could light off fireworks next to her, and she wouldn't notice, at least when she's watching one those shows. I've got an hour or so, if you need that long. I think I've still got a couple of beers up there in the fridge, anyway. My little stash, for emergencies." He grinned at that. He gestured down toward Jason's duffel bag. "You find what you were looking for?"

    Jason looked down at the bag as well, glad that George wasn't overly interested in its contents.

    "Yes and no. If you don't mind, I'll probably take all that stuff with me afterwards. There's a lot of pictures in there that I'd like to have. Might as well get all those boxes cleared out of there for you as well. I'd like to go take a look at the apartment first though, if it's no trouble. I appreciate the offer."

    "Not a problem. Maybe I'll be able to talk you into taking the place, if you're looking for anything, that is." He gestured back up the stairs. "Lead the way."

    Jason nodded, and moved past George, and began to climb the stairs.

    George followed him with his eyes for a moment, and a grin slowly crawled across his face.

    Maybe now I can get some peace, he thought. I'm doing my part, doing what it told me it wanted me to do.

    His grin faded, as another thought slithered through his mind. Maybe it lied. Maybe it won't let me go, even now.

    He followed Jason up the stairs.