Sleep Tight

Chapter 15

Blondes.

He'd always had an obsession with blondes. When he was little, he used to sit behind a little blond girl who had the most amazing hair. It was so blond, it was almost white. One time he touched it. She didn't stop him, so he touched it again, continuing to get braver until she turned her head and caught him with her silken locks spilling through his fingers. She cried. That hurt. After that, he went out of his way to avoid her… but he never quit thinking about her hair…

He bought a paper and read up on the visitation and funeral of Charlotte Henning. He wanted to go. He desperately needed to see her, needed to make sure she'd completed her journey safely.

But he couldn't. He knew how these things worked. The police would be there looking for him. So he sent her a rosebush instead, one her parents could plant at the cemetery or in their yard. Whenever they saw the abundant, beautiful red blooms, they'd think of their daughter, and they'd think of him.

The funeral was scheduled for two o'clock.

At 12:30, he showered and shaved, then put on his only suit. The jacket sleeves were a little short, but if he pulled down the cuffs of his white shirt, it didn't look too bad.

At 1:30, he stepped into the basement and turned on the overhead lights.

He'd taken fifteen photos of Charlotte in the bathtub. Those he'd developed and enlarged to a variety of forty eight-by-tens. One wall was covered with her pictures-a memorial to a beautiful girl, a beautiful woman. In many of them he'd varied his developing technique, using different paper, different exposure times, filters, even some burning and dodging, so that even though many of the poses were the same, each was different.

He had several favorites, but the one he liked best was an eight-by-ten of her face-her sweet, angelic face.

He'd used a filter and fiber paper, both lending a softness to the finished product. She looked about twelve years old. She looked like an angel, with her blond, matted hair, her dark lips that had really been blue but since he worked exclusively in black-and-white, they could very well have been a lush red.

He checked the industrial clock on the wall. Five minutes.

He pulled out a chair, turning it toward the photos, and sat down, his hands clasped together on his lap.

He closed his eyes.

He imagined driving to the funeral. He imagined parking. He imagined stepping inside the church. And suddenly… he was there…

Candle flames danced behind red glass. The air smelled of flowers. He was pleased to see that the roses he'd sent were displayed prominently by the altar, next to her open coffin.

Without feeling his feet on the floor, he glided down the aisle toward her.

She was beautiful.

Her hair had been washed so it lay softly on either side of her face. Her lips were no longer blue, but a healthy pink that matched her cheeks. She wore a flowing white gown, the neckline trimmed with lace.

He looked down past her breasts and trim waist to where her hands were lying delicately, one on top of the other, her fingernails as pink as shells.

He reached inside the coffin and touched her blond hair. It was soft as silk. He touched her hands, which were warm beneath his fingers.

"You're going home," he whispered, bending closer.

Her eyes opened, and she smiled up at him.

"Forgive me." His throat was beginning to hurt, his voice getting tight.

"Come with me," she said, an imploring look on her face. She lifted a hand to him. "Come with me-"

Tears welled up in his eyes. "I can't," he choked.

"Of course you can."

"No. No, I can't. Don't ask me that."

"The world is a cruel place. You said so yourself."

"I'm afraid."

"There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Yes. Yes, there is!"

"Shhh."

The sound came from several people seated nearby. They were staring at him with cross faces and fingers pressed to their lips.

The scene changed, and suddenly he was sitting at the back of the church. The service had begun. Beautiful songs were sung, but when it came time for everyone to follow the closed coffin outside, he couldn't make himself get up.

"I'm afraid," he whispered shamefully to himself.

He couldn't make himself go to the cemetery. Couldn't make himself follow her on the last leg of her journey. He didn't like cemeteries. He tried to stay away from cemeteries.

Good-bye, Charlotte.

He opened his eyes and stood up, the chair legs scraping against the floor. Exhausted, he walked to the wall of photos and pulled down his favorite, the soft close-up of Charlotte's face.

Why had she asked him to come with her? He was ashamed because he was such a coward. There had been many times in his life when he'd thought of killing himself. He believed in God, and he knew the next world had to be better than this one. He wanted to die, wanted to join her, but he'd been told that killing himself would be a sin. A mortal sin that could send him plummeting to hell.

But maybe this was hell.

Words came to him and he spoke them aloud: "The errors that are whispered to me, enchantments, false perfumes, childish melodies."

Who had written that? Somebody's favorite author. Rimbaud. Yes. Arthur Rimbaud had written those words.

He bent his head and kissed Charlotte, sweet, sweet Charlotte, on the lips.

He put the photo aside and left the darkroom to change out of his suit so he could return to work.

He thought about the other girls. Their annoying imperfections.

Sluts.

Bitches.

Undeserving of life.

He reached into the deep front pocket of his pants, feeling for the six round objects he kept there. They were dry and much smaller now, but he loved the way they felt. He rolled them against his fingertips, around and around. Like worry stones, they brought him comfort, comfort he sorely needed in a time like this when his quest for a mate had to start all over again.

The bartender kicked them out at 1 a.m.

There was a lot of noise as the five friends shuffled out the door, of the rural Minnesota tavern.

"Comin' over, Todd?" Jerry asked as he searched through his keys. "I rented a coupla movies. Adam Sandier. You still like Adam Sandier?"

"Who doesn't?" Todd asked, not wanting to make Jerry feel bad even though he'd outgrown Sandier a while back. "I don't know. I'm a little tired."

"Come on."

"Yeah, come on. We're all going," chimed in two of the other guys.

The routine was familiar. Usually Todd dragged his feet, saying he was tired, but eventually Jerry and company convinced him to come to Jerry's place, where they would sit around drinking beer and watching movies until early morning. It had been fun when they were in high school, but they'd been out for four years now, and Todd was finding it increasingly depressing.

"I think I'll just go on home," Todd said, even though he knew once he got there he would lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and stew about his life until the sun came up. He was going through what was now being termed "quarter-life crisis," and he wasn't enjoying it.

"Sure?" Jerry asked, standing with his car door open.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure."

They broke up, and Todd fumbled for his keys. Now that he was standing upright, he realized he was drunker than he'd thought. He'd just drive slow and take a back road. His truck was a piece of shit with over a hundred thousand miles on it, but it always got him home.

"Shoulda stayed in college," he said to himself as he turned onto a narrow, unmarked road that wound between a mixture of towering pines and deciduous trees. He'd gotten into a fender bender last winter, and one headlight didn't point straight anymore. Instead, it veered to the right, illuminating the trees as he passed.

The night was cold with patches of fog. Condensation settled on the windshield. The wipers were going, but they didn't help much. Todd craned his neck trying to find a clear area, the fog just dense enough to be disorienting as he tried to spot something that looked familiar, that would take him in the direction of his trailer. Why had he gone this way? Why hadn't he taken a road he was more familiar with? Had he missed the turn?

He continued on for ten minutes.

Too far.

He braked, coming to a stop in the middle of the dark, deserted road. He was about to swing the truck around using the ol' three-point turn when he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.

His scalp prickled.

Ever since he could remember, he'd heard stories about this road, about a ghost that had been seen by a lot of people. He'd never seen a ghost. Once, when he was twelve and sitting alone in his room, he thought he felt the pressure of a hand on his shoulder. But it never happened again, so as the years passed he figured he'd just imagined it.

He clicked on his brights.

Oh, shit.

Standing on the side of the road was a blurry shape.

His first instinct was to turn the truck around and haul ass out of there. He fumbled with the gearshift, intending to put it in drive. But he'd already been in drive, and he accidentally slammed it into park instead.

He looked up, the sound of his heart thundering in his head. His'eyes watered in fear.

The apparition turned to face him.

A girl.

He'd expected to see a skull for a face, or at least something withered and ugly, but it was a girl. A girl with blond hair. Wearing nothing but a red T-shirt, panties, and jogging shoes. She stood at the edge of the road, staring into the bright lights.

His fear dissolved. This was somebody real. This was somebody in trouble.

He pulled out the parking brake and stepped from the truck. "Are you okay?" he shouted to her.

She stared as if afraid of him-or as if trying to gauge whether he was friend or foe.

He began to move slowly toward her, the soles of his boots echoing hollowly and sounding unnatural on the deserted road.

"Stop!" She held up a hand, palm out.

He stopped.

"Don't come any closer!"

"Okay, okay. I won't. Look, I stopped. I'm just standing here. But I think you should get in my truck so I can take you-"

"Truck? You're driving a truck?"

"Yeah." He stepped into the headlight beam, his body cutting off the light, throwing her into darkness. "Now can you see it?"

"M-maybe." She raised her arm higher, like a person blocking the sun. "I'm not sure."

He stepped to the side so the light once again illuminated her. She was younger than he'd thought. Fifteen, sixteen, maybe. Her face was dirty and scratched, and there were tear tracks down her cheeks.

Something bad had happened to her. Something really bad.

He began blabbering, trying to gain her trust. "My name's Todd. I live around here." He scratched his head-a nervous gesture of his. "I should be going to college, but… I don't know, 1 thought it was a drag and quit. Now I wish I hadn't. It's not like it's too late, I guess. But it doesn't seem the same going when you're twenty-two." He paused, trying to pull together more of his biography. That was about it. Sad, really. "Let me help you."

He began to move again, slowly because he was afraid she might bolt.

She didn't, and soon he was close enough to touch her arm. It was like cold marble.

She spoke, and when she did her words came out a harsh, broken whisper through a throat that sounded raw. "Some guy. Some creepy, awful, creepy guy. He k-kidnapped me and p-put me in the trunk of his car. It smelled awful in there! Awful!"

"Oh, man!"

"I started gagging and couldn't breathe." She pressed madly trembling fingers to her mouth. Her eyes began to tear. "B-but t-that gave me the idea to play dead… and I got away."

Fuuuckkk! The hairs on the back of his neck shifted. He'd read about some crazy asshole who was kidnapping and killing girls. The people on the news had started calling him the Lucia Killer because the guy kept their eyes. Their fucking eyes! What kind of person did that? Nervously Todd checked up and down the road. Empty except for the fog. At least it looked empty.

He'd seen Texas Chainsaw Massacre over twenty times, and he half expected Leatherface to come crashing out of the trees, chainsaw in his hand.

"Come on! Let's get the hell out of here!" He grabbed the girl. Stumbling, they ran for the truck.