Estrella House Publishing

Everyone knows Marsha Meadow is kooky but this is different.

When I show up to her weeknight tea invitation, there are no cups on the table, no kettle either. How’ve you been? I say.

You better sit down, she says. I have a favor to ask.

I detest conversations that start with such warnings, but what the hell, I’m already here. When she offers me a scotch, my antennae goes further up.

Look, she says. My salary has been stagnant for the longest and this place keeps raising our rent every six months. It’s hard to keep up. I listen attentively, yet fail to see what any of it has to do with me.

Everyone knows who your grandmother was. You’ve inherited her gifts. Will you get to the point, please? The only way to bring the rent down is for these estates to become… you know. She twists her mouth, flails her arms, and makes strange expressions. You still have her book, right? She did leave it to you? Oh no no no! Not a chance. Are you crazy? I say. Do you have any idea how dangerous that could be? It can’t be worse than ending up on the streets. If you don’t do this I’ll be sleeping in a tent or cardboard box as sure as the sun rises in the east.

I grab my purse from her couch and storm out without saying another word. Marsha may have been merely kooky at one time, but at present she’s lost her mind completely. On the way home, several panhandlers approach me. Old, young, tall, short, men, women, what have you. These days they come in all shapes, genders and ages. I give out the few coins I have, but they still curse at me as I walk away, calling me a soulless cheapskate, in addition to the glorious C word. It’s hard to please people anymore – the destitute especially.

That night I toss and turn, haunted by Marsha’s request. My phone’s bombarded with her messages. Please please please do this for me or I’ll be ruined come springtime. I won’t tell anyone it was your doing. Covering my head with the pillow doesn’t grant me the desired escape from reality, so I’m in and out of sleep continuously, meeting the incoming dawn with heavy bags under my eyes.

That week I’m a zombie at work, barely able to focus on any task. My boss notices my lethargy and glances at me sideways while passing by my cubicle with his late afternoon coffee. Real nice. That’s all I need: to lose this job in a crashing economy and find myself in Marsha’s shoes.

In the evening, I find her sitting on the steps of my building. Sobbing, shivering, nearly shaking. Her eyes are redder than a pair of dark cherries. My landlord said if I don’t come with the rent in two weeks, I’ll be evicted. Wow. How exactly did I inherit her problems? By association alone, seemingly. I shake my head, curse at myself within, then give her a hug. At length, I whisper fine but this is the first and last time. And just like that, Marsha’s sobs turn merry. Suddenly she’s showering me with smacking kisses, loud, and nearly obnoxious. Thank you thank you thank you! I’ll come tomorrow after work, I say.

As I promised, my grandma’s black book in tow (it’s aged; its physical makeup now more dust than binding, but the interior content is all that matters), I ring Marsha’s buzzer as the sun is casting long shadows on the adjacent buildings. Soon I’m inside her unit. The table is laid out with drinks hot and cold, soft and hard.

Anything you want, she says. I will forever remain in your debt.

Marsha, I say. I need you to understand that once I do this, there’s no putting the paste back into the tube. I won’t have any control over what or who crosses over.

That’ll be my problem. After all, how bad can spirits be when compared to the greedy landlords and banks that suck working people’s souls on a daily basis?

Fine, I say. Your funeral. But what about the other residents?

Don’t worry, she says. They’re in the same boat as me. Chomping at the bit to spend less and save more.

I contemplate her words, narrow my eyes, then, at last, shrug approvingly. Then, I open the book and soon the ancient words unroll off my tongue with the gracefulness of a cat being skinned alive. Outdoors the darkest clouds suddenly emerge out of nowhere and distant lightning manifests itself in roaring thunder that explodes as if only a few feet away. My eyes close, and I see everything and nothing, hear silence and otherworldly boisterousness, witness the beginning and the end, experience all life that ever existed and simultaneously nothing that ever was and never will be. It’s a momentary vision, but one that shakes me from within and without, making me involuntarily retch all over her table, on glasses half filled and those still empty. Luckily, she doesn’t mind my vomit in the least.

It’s done, I say.

Thank you thank you thank you! Marsha hugs and kisses me again, nearly strangling me with her excessive jubilation. I down a few shots of scotch (from a clean untouched glass), hoping it’ll make me forget what I just did. But instead, the drink burns my throat and causes me to cough half a lung. Meanwhile, Marsha is radiating with newfound happiness. Hard to believe how miserable and frail she appeared only yesterday.

How long before they’re roaming the hallways and units?

It could be anywhere from six hours to two days, I say. Secretly, I pray and hope I didn’t recite the words correctly and that none of it will come to pass. Then again, that would hardly solve Marsha’s dilemma. Her hardship would only escalate. I don’t exactly dislike her, but if she becomes unhoused, I wouldn’t want the burden of having her crash on my couch. It’s bad enough living in my tiny studio as is. One person’s elbows can’t go a day without banging against the narrow kitchen and bathroom walls, much less those of two neurotic underachieving women.

Days go by, and I don’t hear from Marsha. Despite my increasing curiosity, I refrain from texting or calling. My fingertips merely graze the tiny keyboard, without ever pushing. At night, insomnia grips me again, but this time it’s heavier than before. I struggle breathing as a stuffy nose forces me to open my mouth to compensate for the lack of air. 

Three weekends later, after she ignores all my messages and calls, I’m unable to keep inquisitive urges at bay. At length, I venture to Marsha’s place. Sweaty palms, escalating heart rate, and pessimistic thoughts consume me on my way. Calm down, I think to myself. Relax. Stop biting your nails. Everything will be fine. Marsha especially. But it doesn’t work. None of it. I’m a nervous wreck, through and through.

Her street is quiet, chilly, consumed by darkness. The building’s stature is ghastly. Not a human soul in sight. No postmen, no delivery vehicles, not even children playing in the intermittent spots of greenery. Some of the windows appear broken. The pavement below is painted in splotches of red. A perpetually black cloud hovers above the Edgegrove Estates, and a muffled ominous howling emanates from within. The closer I approach, the more the hairs on my arms stand.

I wouldn’t go in there if I were you, a ragged man in filthy clothes says to me. He’s pushing a flimsy cart with squeaky wheels full of plastic bottles and aluminum cans. Before I can process his words, he disappears around the corner, like a spirit that never was. I hesitate and think about his warning, but the image of Marsha, helpless and desperate and likely in need, nudges me forward.

Inside, the hallway is colder than the Arctic. My breath is visible, despite the warm spring weather outside. The elevator is out of service. Lights are off everywhere. By the time I climb to Marsha’s floor, I encounter several bums, who’ve turned the stairwell into their new dwelling. Smell of feces and urine overwhelms me, so I knock on her door with a fervor bordering on desperation. It takes her longer than usual to open, and when she does, I’m shocked at her appearance. 

Paler than a snowman in January, Marsha’s bloodshot eyes stare past me, unblinking, as if looking through me. Her hair is clumpy, messy, emitting an unfamiliar foulness.

Hey there. Nice of you to come by. Her voice is reminiscent of a robotic unit at an automation exhibit. She walks away, implying I should follow after her. So I do.

In her living room, dirty cups and glasses and plates are scattered all over. Filth is abundant, as is the smell of rotten food. How are you holding up? I say. I immediately regret uttering the words, for they serve only to imply my spinelessness.

I haven’t slept in days. They won’t let me, especially at night. I suppose this’ll take getting used to. I just hope it’s sooner than later.

Marsha, upon even closer inspection, is the epitome of the undead. No color suggesting life or vivacity remains in her. Charred lips, cracked skin, and a newfound thinnes that turns her previously full frame skeletal. Her words are spoken automatically, any emotion in them as absent as sunlight struggling to invade through her windows. This is my fault, all of it. Sure, Marsha did beg me to help her, but I should’ve refused, no matter how dire her desperation. I should’ve known. But I did, of course I did. And yet, I went through it anyway. What does that make me?

Shit.

Everyone’s gone, she says. Mrs. Ashby jumped out of the window a few days ago. The Mostovs and the Rosenbaums, too. Kate and Adam Reznick slit their wrists in a bathtub after sending their children upstate. Others ran away in the middle of the night, like sewer rats at the sight of a famished feline. The police won’t come anywhere near the place.

So… I say. You’re the only one left? She nods, grinning. I wanted lower rent, but now it’s been reduced to nothing. I live free of charge, despite the night horrors. But look at the bright side: I won’t be going homeless. Whoo-hoo!

To say she was out of touch was an understatement. Marsha, I say. Why don’t you come with me? My place is small, but it’s safe. We’ll make it work, I’m sure of it. You don’t have to pay anything, I’ll cover the bills, all of them. Please… come with me, and leave this place. This building. This life. I made a mistake, and I’m sorry.

In lieu of a verbal reply, she chuckles. Her extended cackling echoes deep into the hallway, even into the stairwell that spirals like a vortex of infinite madness, if looked at from above. When her laughter ceases, she shakes her head.

No, thanks. I have my own place, and no parasitic landlord will ever bleed me dry of my wages to cover its cost.

I try grabbing her arm, but she swiftly flinches it away, and angrily flashes her teeth. They’re as rotten as the maggot ridden food on her scattered plates. I’m sorry, Marsha. For everything. But she isn’t listening. My words are as inconsequential as the howling whispers and sinister wailing that periodically emanates within and without her walls. I nod and say goodbye, but she doesn’t hear me. All I get is a mechanical half-wave of her arm as I close the door behind me.

On the way out, I see additional impoverished individuals on the stairwell. They move effortlessly under the haunting shadows, and smell like rodents of the underworld. Before I reach the front door, familiar voices cry in my wake.

There goes that miserly wench. She may shower us with pennies again – although I’d rather she shove them up her twat.

The last thing I hear before I reach the outdoors is the emblematic C word. Normally, its utterance in my direction would beget a clenched fist, a furrowed brow, even a malicious F-bomb re-directed at the sender. But today, I take it with shrugged shoulders, for it’s hard to argue with its validity.