A record spun silence into the air; the needle of its player was held captive by two pale fingers. Watching the vinyl reel about the spindle was a set of eyes—one red and one blue—unblinking for what could have been moments or a lifetime.
Ashley’s thoughts were of a face without form, a voice without sound, and the embrace of flesh without texture. Yet no matter how vivid the ghost—no matter how close Ashley came to a dream—he remained aware as ever of the empty space in the bed beside him.
He turned his head to examine an antiquated clock:
5:21 a.m.
Four walls, a roof, and boarded-up windows would spare him—as they had for twenty years—from the creeping morning light.
The record needle slipped from Ashley’s hand as he sat upright and perched on the bedside. The old iron frame groaned with each subtle movement of his body. There were times, such as now, when he would have to take a look around and remind himself that this was home. This small house in northern Ohio with pink shag carpet from time immemorial was where he lived—where he would live forever, at this rate.
All night in his head, two lovers had lazily drifted along a narrow dirt road dividing two desolate moors. A broken sign lay in the dirt, pointing the way to a nameless village. Their arms were draped softly across one another's shoulders while their hands tenderly entwined. In time, the older of the two asked his friend if he in any way feared the future.
“I’m afraid of a lot of things,” answered the younger, “but that isn’t one of them.”
What more was said meant little; Ashley instead clung to the fleeting feeling of the older boy leaning in to kiss the younger’s forehead. The younger could in no way resist the urge to kiss back. They soon slowed to a stop while they indulged in the moment; their fingers untangled and they moved to hold one another. The older’s eyes closed—the younger’s did not. Soon, the older brought his hand up and let his fingers slide through the soft, short blonde hair of his lover….
Ashley stood. He took the record player under his arm, and after a few steps, found himself across the room in front of a chest-high stack of unsorted record singles waiting to be alphabetized. On top was a curled, dusty, yellowing newspaper, which he picked up and carefully unrolled. “Vampire Slay” read the front page headline. Even the passage of time had yet to make it true; not one word in the decaying British rag was worth reading. Instead, he was drawn to the image: an old photograph of three young men lying battered and dead in the dirt. One in particular held Ashley’s attention as his fingertips pawed gently across the body. He stood entranced by the photo, and then considered the publication date for what must have been the thousandth time over the years: 7th July, 1958.
With his hands full, Ashley strode through the kitchen where a dizzying pattern in the linoleum further betrayed his old house’s age. When he reached the living room, he found a place for the record player atop a wrought iron coffee table, and then glanced to the walls where milk crates and metal shelves housed a seemingly limitless collection of vinyl.
He started toward them, only to be stopped when a sharp squawk tore through the silence. “Brawwwwk. Wanna die!”
He shot a harsh look toward a blue and yellow macaw perched on a small stand nearby. “Sydney, that’s a horrible thing to say. You’re a bad bird.”
“Good bird!” Sydney snapped back, seemingly amused by himself.
Ashley rolled his eyes as he made his selection from the meticulously organized albums. He blew dust off the sleeve of a fragile forty-five and carried it back to the old player where, before he could place the disc down, a knock at the door interrupted him.
Sydney squawked again, “Aurelio,” and Ashley glanced at a clock:
5:29 a.m.
He left the record waiting and approached the door. It was unlocked, and a weak tug was all it needed to open. “Hey.” He smiled at his visitor. “Come in.”
He headed toward the kitchen as Aurelio, an older teenager with a few years on Ashley, stepped inside.
“There was a letter stuck on your door.” He held it up as he turned the lock. “It’s from the city—it says you’ll be fined if you don’t cut your grass.”
Ashley was unmoved. “Would you like something to eat?”
He laughed, “Sure, thanks,” and dropped the notice on the coffee table as he approached Sydney. “Hey, buddy.”
“I love you,” Sydney squawked back.
He began to scratch the bird’s neck. “So,” he called to Ashley. “I didn’t get the part—any part.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Ashley. “You said you didn’t do so well in the audition.”
“Botched it. I’d probably be more disappointed if they had wanted me.” He paused. “Okay, that’s not true at all.”
Ashley chuckled.
“I’m just bummed because there won’t be many other commercials shooting until after Christmas,” he added while Ashley prepared two sunny-side-up eggs.
“We’ll keep you busy.” Ashley sprinkled salt over the sizzling pan. “For instance, my lawn apparently needs mowing—and I’m sure Stam will be up for some movies.”
Aurelio smiled and glanced about the room. “I guess she’s not home yet?”
“No.” An oat fell from a bag as Ashley slid two slices of bread into a toaster. “She works late in the winter.” He reached down, swiftly, to pluck the fleck of grain from the floor.
“She’s over at that church like, every night.”
“There’s nowhere Stam would rather be—” Ashley gestured to the record player. “Can you hit the music?”
“Sure.” Aurelio crossed the room to the player and lifted the needle. “Who’s this?” he asked as he set it onto the vinyl and—through crackles and popping—a rich, crooning voice began to sing of cloudy skies and dreams.
“Crosby,” replied Ashley.
As the song played, Aurelio’s gaze wandered the shelves upon shelves filled with records of all shapes and sizes, in cases and slips of all colors and textures. Atop one particular stack, he noticed a picture frame laying face-down, and turned it upright to expose a photograph of Ashley with a young girl.
“Who is this?” He held the picture out to Ashley. “A friend from back in New York?”
Ashley glanced over to see what Aurelio meant, and quickly—though subtly—recoiled at the sight. “No, no….” His teeth had gritted, but he soon smiled and even laughed softly as he returned to cooking. “I don’t remember her name.”
“Was it taken in an antique shop or something?” There was an old record player—not unlike Ashley’s—in the foreground of the shot.
“A music shop.” Ashley kept his reply terse, not that there was all that much more to the story.
Eventually, Aurelio turned away from the records and photograph and noticed the newspaper on the coffee table. He picked it up so he could examine the front page and its sinister headline.
“You sure collect a lot of weird stuff.”
“You’re one to talk,” said Ashley. “I’ve seen your movie library.”
Aurelio couldn’t argue, and shrugged in agreement as Ashley pulled his skillet from the stove and observed the time:
5:36 a.m.
Bing Crosby continued to croon, and the clouds in his song soon gave way to sunshine.
* * *
A girl’s pale fingers reached out to pluck a single grain of rice from frosted grass beneath her feet. She gently placed it into a small plastic bag before seeking out another, and then another. The scattered remnants of a rare December wedding kept her unusually occupied and stuck outside through the night and into a bitter cold morning.
She did not mind.
At last, with one final grain dropped safely into the bag and the monotonous task complete, she took hold of a large, rusted metal case at her side; it was roughly two feet long and a little less than half that in width and depth. She carried it with her across the frozen earth toward the entrance of a nearby church, searching the ground as she walked, and eventually sighted a small stone which she paused to pick up. When she reached the church’s thick wooden door, she rapped on its surface with the rock.
After no answer, she tried again.
The door soon creaked open and a girl’s head poked out. “It wasn’t locked, Stam,” she said, making no effort to hide her perplexity.
“May I come in?”
The girl stepped aside, “Whatever,” and Stam quickly slid through, avoiding contact with the door as it fell shut.
Inside, the church was quiet; the morning mass had not yet begun, and only a handful of tired students had begun to assemble in the vestibule. Stam appeared noticeably different from the others: her skin, chilled from the winter air, was the color and texture of flour, and her pale blonde—almost white—chin-length hair set her far apart from the primped, tan preteen girls beginning to experiment with foundation. Her simple sweaters and jeans always stood her out against the blue jumper uniform of Saint Elia’s Academy for Girls, and several students watched with their usual skepticism as Stam passed by and entered the nave.
She busied herself placing a few scattered Bibles, very carefully, into their proper places in the back of the pews. She then glanced at her wrist, from habit, before reaching into a pocket to remove a cell phone. She took note of the time:
6:21 a.m.
From a janitor’s closet, she procured a broom and began dutifully sweeping the floor, pausing every now and then to retrieve her metal case so it was seldom more than a few feet from reach.
The idling students had begun to grow in numbers, and now, a few had moved into the nave and were fluttering about. Stam continued as though unaware of their chatter—even after a voice called out to her.
“Hey.”
It was a boy’s voice, one that was commonly heard on Sunday mornings.
“Hello,” Stam replied, unfaltering in her task.
A group of girls abruptly shifted their attention to this exchange.
“I wanted to ask you something,” the boy said, with all the confidence expected from the deacon’s son and top athlete of the nearby public school.
“What?”
The boy grasped the plastic handle of Stam’s broom, stopping her and successfully bringing her eyes to his.
“I was wondering if you’d wanna go with me to the Christmas Dance this weekend.”
“No.”
He was shocked, more by the fact that she’d turned him down than the terseness of her response.
“Why not?” he asked, ego unwavering. “It’d be fun.”
“I don’t think so,” she replied, with no intended rudeness.
“Come on.” He took the broom from her.
“I’d rather not.”
“That sucks.” He handed it back. “Oh well….”
As quickly as he'd come, he left. Stam went on sweeping, hardly noticing that in under a minute, the boy had been replaced by the group of girls who had been watching. They surrounded Stam on one side.
“Hey, Stam,” blurted one particularly abrasive voice.
“Hello.”
“What’s wrong with you?” the tallest asked, harshly.
“What do you mean?”
The tallest girl reached out and took hold of Stam’s broom, just as the boy had. “You just blew off David Boylan.” She said it as though he was a celebrity or household name. “You know he doesn’t really like you—he just feels sorry for you.”
“Why would he feel sorry for me?”
The tall girl started laughing and was joined immediately by her two counterparts.
“Do you think she’s a lesbian?” the tall girl suggested to the blonde girl on her left.
The blonde girl feigned tremendous shock and covered her mouth. “Oh my God, she is.”
The tall girl focused again on Stam. “I’ll bet you like girls.” She moved in close and mimicked seduction as legitimately as a twelve-year-old could, batted her eyelashes, and puckered-up. “Do you wanna kiss me, Stam?”
“No.”
“She’s totally a lesbian,” laughed the blonde girl.
Stam produced her cell phone once more and examined the time:
6:37 a.m.
Her eyes lifted from the screen to the tall girl.
“I need the broom back. I have to go home.”
“Not until you kiss Samantha.” The tall girl pushed the third girl forward, who had been silent until this point.
“Eww!” Samantha balked.
Stam glanced at her, and then back to the tall girl. “I don’t want to.”
“Yeah, well, she wants to kiss you,” the tall girl claimed.
“No I don’t,” Samantha insisted.
Stam had lost interest. She raised her hand to take the broom, but the tall girl quickly pulled it back.
Again, Stam checked the time:
6:39 a.m.
Taking full advantage of Stam’s distraction, the girl plucked the metal case up from the floor. It was heavier than expected, and forced the girl to struggle enough that Stam was immediately able to grab hold of one end in an attempt to retrieve it.
The tall girl jeered, “You’re short, ugly, and a lesbian.” She laughed as she pulled the case free from Stam’s hands. With some effort, she raised it high, out of Stam’s reach.
“I need that,” Stam said flatly.
“What’s in here, anyway?” the girl demanded as she rattled its small, rusted padlock. “Is this like your gross lunchbox or something?”
Stam took hold of the tall girl’s arm, but not before a pass had been coordinated, and the case was maneuvered to the blonde girl.
“Why are you touching me? Sarah’s the one who has it.”
Stam quickly let go and moved on to Sarah, unfamiliar with the childish game.
“You just wanted to touch me.” The tall girl feigned disgust.
“Give it back,” Stam requested, her patience waning.
The game of keep-away persisted until the case wound up in Samantha’s hands. David’s voice then interrupted, “Stop being so mean, Hannah.”
The three looked in David’s direction as he approached. The tall girl, Hannah, acted quickly and grabbed the case from Samantha, offering it back to Stam.
“They were just being immature,” Hannah claimed, sounding annoyed.
Stam did not hesitate. With the metal case now retrieved, she pushed past the girls and David, and went straight toward the door. On the inside was a crash bar which she quickly—though carefully—pressed down. Outside, she hurried through the dark down a stone path, across a section of the school’s track, past a small field, and into a parking lot empty but for one car: a beat-up, maroon sedan of what might have been—twenty years prior—a nondescript make and model which now stood out as newly vintage. She tossed her phone and the metal case onto the passenger’s seat as she dropped into the driver’s and slid a key into the ignition. With some strain, the engine started, and Stam immediately observed the time on the car radio:
6:43 a.m.
Quickly, she moved the metal case from its precarious position and slid it into a snug resting place behind her own seat. With her hand on the shift, she glanced at the clock as it changed:
6:44 a.m.
With a sigh, she turned off the car.
* * *
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