Tacky Goblin by T. Sean Steele

Author:T. Sean Steele
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781940430898
Publisher: Curbside Splendor Publishing
Published: 2016-04-27T04:00:00+00:00

CHEWY SPREES, ALSO GOOD

February 5, 2014

Kim didn’t like when I called her at work, but this time I had to. I tried to start the conversation off on a good note.

“You have one of those nice telephone voices,” I said. “It’s a shame about text messaging. You were born in the wrong era.”

“Look, I’m busy trying to keep a two-year-old from accidentally committing suicide,” she said. “What do you want?”

“I locked myself out of the apartment.”

“How?”

“I’m not sure. I went to the laundry room and then I came back and the door was locked.”

“This is why you need a day job, so we don’t have incidents like this.”

“Let’s focus on the task at—” I stopped. There was a sound coming from inside the apartment.

“What?” Kim said.

“There are people inside,” I said. “A man and a woman. I think they’re bickering. What should I do?”

“Try knocking,” she said.

*

A man sat at our kitchen table glowering at his plate and complaining about the food. His hair was slicked back with Brylcreem. He tugged at his grease-stained wife beater. “This steak is moldy,” he said. “Don’t be melodramatic,” said his wife, who had introduced herself at the door as Susan.

“There’s a worm in it.” He jabbed at the steak with his fork. “It’s like this food has been sitting out for decades. Learn to cook.” He choked down a piece anyway.

Susan rolled her eyes and tied her apron. “We’re not usually so out of sorts,” she told me. “Normally I’d say we’ll get it together, but I’m having a premonition that today ends in pieces.” The tendons in her neck kept twitching. She picked up a knife.

“I think there’s been some confusion,” I said.

“Goddamn right, confusion!” said the husband, dropping his fork in disgust. “The food tastes awful, my clothes are moth-eaten, and I have a horrible ache in my chest. We don’t have time for visitors.”

“You’re the visitors,” I said. “I live here.”

He pounded his fist on the table. “Don’t give me that! We’ve lived here for nearly ten years. I remember, it was the day FDR died. What, are you the landlord’s son? Is this some kind of scheme? Do you want to get throttled?” Before I could answer, he got distracted scratching his chest. He started to pull off his shirt. It practically crumbled away. He examined his chest, but there was nothing there. “I thought I felt something,” he mumbled. Susan looked back and forth between her knife and his chest.

I knew what was happening. “I get it,” I said. “You’re haunting me. A horrible thing happened here, and you’re operating on repeat.”

“Horrible?” Susan said. “Try wonderful. I couldn’t stand this man. Every day I dreamt about plunging this knife into his chest. And now every day I get to. This might be heaven.” She laughed too hard.

“Hasn’t this gone on long enough?” her husband asked. “You’ve been killing me every day for decades, way longer than we were ever together alive. It isn’t fair.”

“Oh, quit whining,” she said. “You get your licks in, too.

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