Chapter 3

As I was sipping my tea that evening, I realized that it wasn’t the man who spoke five languages I needed to be concerned about: It was the clown. The clown had convinced me that I should trust him, or was it the man too? I wasn’t sure, but I decided to lock my doors just in case, before plugging away at the romance novel I am working on. There is another knock and I open the door. It’s a man with dark brown hair and a beautiful, magnificent beard.

“Hello,”

“Hi. Do I know you?”

“I’m your long-lost cousin. My name is Jabari.”

“Jabari?”

“Yes.”

“Do you...by any chance, speak five languages?”

“Yes. I do. I speak French, Italian, Finnish, and Portuguese.”

“Why Finnish?”

“Curiosity.”

He pauses.

“May I come in?”

My voice catches in my throat and I reply, “No. Not right now I’m afraid! I’ve got a lot of work to do today.”

“Alright. No problem,” he replies seriously, “I’ll be back.”

I can’t tell whether this is a cordial promise or a threat disguised in a nuanced tone, but I am fearful that it is the latter.

A lot of bizzarity has occurred around here recently. The clown was oddly specific about this particular individual, but I’m just not sure what to think anymore. Quarantine is driving me insane I’m afraid, or, at the very least, leading me to experience great paranoia, to the point where I myself am not even sure which fears or rational or irrational, imagined or real.

I sigh, pouring myself a cup of lavender tea to soothe my nerves once more and I continue writing: the hero is now having an affair with the heroine’s best friend, yet, because it’s a romance novel, the couple will make up and live happily ever after. They always do, they always will, even if the relationship in real life would play out as an eternal walk through the brimstones of Hell itself, but, as I said, I don’t have any other particular skills at the moment, just this one, so that’s what I’ll do. That’s what I have to do, and, I must admit, deep down, there’s a part of me that loves it, otherwise I would never have chosen this particular profession I suppose. It’s quite a bit of fun, writing down my naughty thoughts for other people to see. I use a pen name, and for a good reason: Many of the scenes are quite scandalous!

I smirk to myself, grateful to hold onto this brilliant, rather twisted but also lovely pleasure in life. I’ve read about the “side effects” of romance novels for the readers, and one can only begin to imagine how difficult these can be fore the writers themselves: Obsessive expectations about relationships, the idealization of terrible men, a weakness for quick, dirty sex and a tendency to want to romanticize every individual one sees, whether he’s a frog or a prince, but I’m writing love stories, sending something beautiful and creative out into the world, at least, I suppose. I just feel stuck. I’ve felt very stuck for the past three months. I’ve considered writing other novels: suspense, mystery, even horror, but I just don’t seem to have the skills I need in that arena, and I fear that I am too old to develop them at this point.

There’s another knock on the door, and, this time, it is a woman, dressed as a ballerina.

“Hello. Did you just do a show?”

I ask, forgetting for a minute that there is a virus plaguing the entire nation so there is absolutely no way she could have.

“No, silly. It’s Halloween.”

I look at my very reliable apple watch and I realize that it is now November 3rd.

She should know this due to the elections. The world is in a total state of chaos.

I tap her on the shoulder, only to feel my fingers go straight through her skin, and I scream. She cackles.

“Halloween is the night I died! October 31, 1992, at the hands of a man dressed like a clown.”

Shivers run down my spine, and I wonder why exactly these people, well, ghosts I suppose, keep showing up my door, taking pleasure in haunting me.

Were the two men ghosts too? Was I seeing apparitions because I’d spent too much time alone?

I picked up the phone and called Irene.

“Hello?”

“I’m seeing ghosts, Irene. I don’t know what to do! They are literally everywhere. I hate it. I completely hate it.”

“How long have you been holed up in your apartment love?”

I sigh and think about it, then answer.

Three months. I think.

“Have you gone to the grocery store?”

“No. I don’t want to get infected! I’ve gotten everything delivered!”

“Well, at least leave your apartment love. It sounds like you’ve been cooped up a little bit too long! I’ll go with you! I’ll meet you at the store.”

“Okay. Great.”

We meet at Millers and it seems to me that everyone is on edge. The place is as sterile as can be and only a few customers scurry around, keeping as much distance as they possibly can. The marmalade aisle is my favorite, and, also, the most empty, so I head there first and pick out my favorite kind: strawberry. I think I see the clownish figure behind me, but I don’t mention that.

I don’t want Irene to think I’m weirder than she already does, and she would find it odd. People who don’t see ghosts generally do, I suppose.

Not all of them are evil. Actually, during my younger years, when I was seven or eight, I remember speaking to many spirits who were quite friendly. I could tell they were holy: my grandmother who died at the age of thirty-five was one of them. She was quite lovely. Quite lovely indeed. I started to walk to the counter with Irene, but she asked if I wanted anything else before I could get there.

I scratched my chin and thought for a minute. I suppose I wanted some tangerines, and maybe an apple. Come to think of it, I really would appreciate a pecan pie. That’s when I saw him. The man who spoke five languages. He had each one tattooed on his arm and was talking to a bunch of people, but only one at a time, and only one at a time could actually understand him. I sighed.

I hated it when people did that…

He was carrying something. Was it a bomb? I wasn’t sure. It was in his briefcase but I thought I could make out a timer.

“We have to go!” I said swiftly.

“But, you haven’t gotten your tangerines!”

“Irene, that man is going to blow up the store and we have to go.”

She looked, then something clicked inside her and she simply nodded. We practically ran to the door and exited. I left all of my items on the shelf, and, the minute we walked out, just behind us, the place completely exploded.

“What the hell?” she exclaimed.

“Someone’s after me! We have to run!”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why. I don’t know what the fuck I did, Irene, but someone keeps following me.”

I look into the parking lot and I see the clown.

“That’s him! That’s the clown. The guy at my door.”

“I see him too! You’re not seeing ghosts, Annette! These people want something you have. Come with me. Let’s get in my car and leave immediately. You can stay at my place. It’ll be safer that way.”

I nod, unable to speak from shock, and I get in her car. She drives me to her place.

“What the fuck is going on? What do these people want?”

“I don’t know what they want! They said I have something, something, but not want.”

“Probably money.”

“Maybe. I got a pretty big advance from my last book.”

“The Diary of a Submissive? You got like four mil for that, Annete! That’s money they’re probably after.”

“They had my grandmother’s locket. We were living in Afghanistan a long time ago and they said it fell when I was escaping. They held onto it.”

I shudder.

“And they know where I live.”

We finally arrive at Irene’s apartment. It’s nice enough, it’s on the bottom floor at least so we don’t have to climb a bunch of stairs, but it’s also much easier to access, and, right now, I’m not sure if it’s a good thing. It’s also smaller than mine, which is saying something (It’s New York, after all), and there’s less place to hide.

We look around and she quickly latches the door.

“You stay here. We’ll read, we’ll watch tv, we’ll knit, but you are not to leave this room, Annette. Understood?”

“Understood,” I nodded, wishing it didn’t have to be this way.

“I just want to sit here and be alone with my thoughts. That’s all.”

“Okay.” she answers.

My mind wanders back to the memories of the past. That night I had tried so desperately for so long to forget. It was in Afghanistan, during a war, in a shack. I was so lonely. My boyfriend of two years (abusive though he was) had just broken up with me and I was shattered, facing confusion, separation anxiety, and enormous amounts of self-doubt. There was a boy laying next to me and he didn’t want to be touched, but I wanted to, and so I touched him, and I kept going and going until he screamed for his mother and she came, hit me, and left, taking him with her.

I remember seeing the locket earlier today and noticing that there was something different about it. Something changed. There was an engraving on the outside of it, stating that...what had it been again? I couldn’t seem to remember. I furrowed my brows, concentrating.

Oh…

The realization flashed on in my mind.

You will pay.

I remember it now because it was etched roughly on, not fancifully, so someone must have used a makeshift instrument of sorts to actually make it happen.

“Irene. They’re trying to get me back for...something I did long ago.”

“How. What will they do?”

“I don’t know. They want me to squirm, they want me to be scared.”

“Okay.”

She sighs and shrugs.

“Well, then, let’s just watch some television. How does that sound?”

“Perfect.” I answer.