Haunted

HAUNTED

Haunted people? Sure, they seem to be everywhere.

Haunted houses? Oooh, spooky. Good movie fodder. Tales about them are always good for campfire stories.

Haunted cars? They’re not unheard of.

But haunted pens? And I don’t mean pig pens or baby pens (though that sounds ridiculous, too). I mean writing pens.

Yeeeeah, right.

That’s what I would’ve said, too. Would’ve.

Before I found that damn pen.

It was nothing much to look at. It read BIC, SoftFeel, med. It produced black ink. Well, at first, anyway, when it was trying to pass itself off as a good, nonthreatening, nonhaunted pen.

I was out for a jog. It was a crisp fall day; the leaves' colors had just peaked. I rounded my block, and there, right in the gutter, was the pen. It was nice and shiny and looked brand new. The cap was even on.

You probably wouldn’t have picked it up.

You’re you.

But I’m me. Linda Lou. And I picked it up. I’m forever losing pens, and having another around was always nice.

I put it in my pocket and went on my merry jog.

I paid bills later that night and sent out a couple of birthday cards. Got out my checkbook and a whole mess of envelopes and stamps.

And, of course, my “new” pen.

It wrote nice and smooth. There were no inkblots, no choking, no messy swirls.

After I was done, I addressed the envelopes and put stamps on them. I stacked everything really nice on the kitchen counter. I don’t remember where I put the pen. And then I went to watch TV. The shows were good, nothing extraordinary.

And then I headed back into the kitchen for a glass of water before bed.

The pen was on the floor.

I frowned and bent down to pick it up. I put it on the counter, and that’s when I noticed the note, written in beautiful, flowing cursive, no less.

Hello, Linda! Thanks for picking me up. We’ll have fun!

I blinked and re-read the note. And then I got scared. I thought someone had broken into my place, that someone was playing games with me.

My first instinct was to search my apartment but then I realized just how stupid that was. I’m one of those people who yell at the movies: “No! No, you freaking idiot! Don’t run up the stairs!”

And so I scurried right out the front door and into the hallway of my apartment building.

It was near midnight, and I was in my faithful jammies--old, blue sweat pants and a white T-shirt I’d had since my high school softball days.

There’s a big, gold-plated mirror in the hallway, and I studied myself for a moment as I tried to catch my wits.

I’ve always considered myself pretty good-looking, but the reflection greeting me was just as frightening as the note.

I was unnaturally pale. I looked like I’d just seen a ghost. My eyes were big and round. My blond hair was mussed from my evening on the couch.

My gaze fell to my sock-clad feet, and I suddenly felt like a fool. “Go back in,” I coaxed myself.

No, I thought. You know what you saw. Someone’s in there. Or was in there, anyway.

I took a deep breath. What was a girl in my situation supposed to do, anyway? I was 25 and two weeks new in town. Town being Washington, D.C., and me being a newly arrived congressional aide. I lived in a Capitol Hill rowhouse that had been converted into apartments.

And I was shy. Painfully shy. Meeting new people was nerve-wracking for me. I certainly wasn’t going to go knocking on doors at this hour. I considered calling the police. But, somehow, I knew I’d be making a fool of myself. My next thought was to call my sister back home.

But when I heard light footfalls ascend the steps below me, my heart froze.

What if the writer of the note was returning to kill me?

Panting heavily, I stepped back from the mirror and forced myself into the direction of the staircase. No matter what, I wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

And then I saw the most beautiful man and woman coming up toward me. They were laughing and giggling like friends or sweethearts do. The man was tall and chiseled. He had wavy brown hair and wore corduroy pants and a white sweater.

The woman was so stunning she took my breath away. She had brown hair too, but hers was so dark it was almost black. Her eyes were green, and her smile somehow managed to be coy, friendly and slightly feral all at the same time. She was wearing a charcoal business suit that hugged her long, lithe body in all the right places.

I know I looked like a fool.

I knew that my mouth was probably dangling wide open.

And that I was in my pajamas and socks.

But I was unable to move.

The beautiful man and woman reached the top of the stairs and looked at me.

The man furrowed his brows.

But the woman smiled at me, and good God ... if I’d thought she was beautiful, now she was just absolutely, impossibly stunning. “Locked out?” she asked. Her voice was so soft, so smooth, so rich ... all at once!

Somewhere, vaguely, in the cobwebs of my mind, I remembered the note.

I decided not to tell them about that. Please. I still had some sense about me.

But, of course, what I ended up doing was not much better. “Kind of locked out,” I mumbled.

“Kind of?” The woman kept grinning. “Well, hey, Byron and I can help you get back in.”

“No!” I exclaimed. “No! But thanks for offering.”

The man’s furrowed brows deepened. “Uh—well, all right. See you.” He turned to leave, but the woman didn’t budge an inch.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Do ... ah, have you been fighting with someone?”

I felt my cheeks burn. “No. I just wanted fresh air."

“Ah.” She nodded. “Well, the fresh air’s outside.”

“Right. Right. I knew that. I was just on my way out.”

“Without shoes?” She glanced pointedly at my sock-clad feet.

The man mumbled something under his breath.

“I’ll be all right," I said. “Hey, thanks. See you around.” I threw them both a little wave and rushed down the steps.

I still had no idea what I was doing. Come to think of it, that’s been true since I was born. So, anyway, I stopped in front of the row of mailboxes at the front of the hallway.

I thought again about calling my sister. But she’d be all grumbly and pissed at being woken up.

“Crap,” I muttered. “Crap, crap.”

And then I heard her come down the steps. I met her eyes, and my heart froze again.

“Hello,” she greeted me. “Come on, tell me what’s really going on. Spat with your boyfriend?”

I looked away.

“What?”

I glanced back at her. “I live alone. No boyfriend.”

“So what is it? You’re worrying me.”

“Oh, it’s ...” I flapped my hands. “It’s nothing. It’s silly. But, you know, uh ... I’m fine. Really.”

"I'm Victoria," the woman said. “Want come up to my place?”

I was horrified. “What? Oh, I couldn’t. I’m sure you and your husband need to get to sleep.”

“Him? Oh, that mean old lug’s not my husband. He’s my brat of a brother. Little brother. He’s visiting. Come on. He’s gone to bed, but I’m a night owl.”

I was not sure how to reply. Like I said before, I’ve never been good at meeting people. And I certainly wasn’t used to perfect strangers inviting me in. And the timing seemed too coincidental. What if this woman and her so-called brother were involved with the note? What if she was luring me in with her big smile and friendliness?

My brain was jumbled with thoughts, but finally I found myself saying, “Have you ever ...”

“Have I ever what?”

“No. Never mind.”

“Come on. Tell me.”

“All right. I was watching TV all night, and I think someone broke into my apartment. Maybe he’s still there. I don’t know.”

Victoria’s eyes went wide. “Did you call the police?”

“No."

“Why not?”

“What am I going to tell them? That I was watching TV and went into the kitchen to see a note that hadn’t been there before?”

"Well, yeah!"

I swallowed. You would have called the police. You're you, but I'm Linda Lou. Silly, stupid Linda Lou.

“What did the note say?” Victoria asked.

“Ah ...” I couldn’t remember exactly. “Something about being picked up and doing what I was told.”

Victoria frowned. “Let’s call the cops.”

“No. They’re going to think I’m being silly.”

“Who cares? Come on.” Victoria reached into her pocket and came up with a sleek little cellphone. She handed it to me. “Call the cops. “

“I don’t know the number,” I protested lamely.

“Call information, then.”

#

The minute I laid eyes on the policeman who showed up, I knew I was in trouble. He looked to be close to retirement. He had big, red-veined eyes and a bulging beer belly. He walked with a lazy, shuffling gait. It was nothing I could put into words, exactly, but I just knew he wouldn’t believe me. He’d claim I’d written the note myself and that this was all a ploy for attention.

I led the policeman and Victoria to the front door of my apartment, and he asked me what I had been doing before I saw the note.

“I ... I’d been watching TV all night. And then I was about to go to bed. I went into the kitchen to get some water, and right on the counter was a note. A note that hadn’t been there before.”

“What’d it say? You recognize the handwriting?”

“It was ...” I paused a moment, marshalling my thoughts. “It was beautiful handwriting, almost like calligraphy. Flowing cursive. And, uh ... it said something like ... ‘Thanks for picking me up. Now do what I say.’ Something like that.” I shrugged apologetically. “I don’t remember it word for word.”

“Well, let’s have a look,” the cop said, and he went into my apartment.

I stayed behind, in the building's hallway.

Foreboding washed over me.

He’s not going to believe me. He’s not going to believe me.

“Show me where the note is.”

“Shouldn’t you go through the place first, see if anyone’s there?” I suggested.

The cop growled. “Let's do this my way, lady. All right? Where’s the note?”

“On the kitchen counter. I ... can you find it? I don’t want to go in the apartment.” I glanced at Victoria, and she gave me an encouraging smile.

“It’s OK,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to go in, either.”

The cop sighed and disappeared from view.

He was back a minute later. “There’s no note, and nobody in the apartment.”

My jaw fell open. “What? No note?"

The cop scowled. “Lady, we’re busy people, you know. I could write you up for this. Making a false report.”

“You’ve got to believe me!” I protested. I whirled to Victoria. “Don’t you believe me?”

She nodded. “Linda’s telling the truth," she informed the cop. "Look, whoever wrote the note must’ve taken it with him. We’ve been downstairs a while. There’s another way out of the house, another staircase down that hall. It would’ve been easy enough.”

The cop barely glanced at Victoria. “Like I said, we’re busy people. We don’t have time to deal with the likes of you. Consider this a warning.” He shuffled his way to the staircase, and his heavy footfalls reverberated in my ears for a long time after he had left the building.

“No note,” I whispered. “There was a note.”

“I know, I know,” Victoria said soothingly. “I believe you.”

I looked at her, fear almost choking me. “What do I do?”

“Stay with me tonight. Byron’s sleeping on the couch, but we can share my bed.” She flashed me a reassuring smile. “I won’t bite.”

My chest tensed, and all of my earlier suspicions of Victoria came flooding back.

What if she was involved with the note? What if Byron was the one who had removed the note?

She arched a fine, delicate eyebrow. “Well?”

I couldn’t think. She seemed nice. But something about her was off. Something about her gave me the willies, especially now that she had invited me to stay with her.

And she was so beautiful. Beautiful women have always scared me. I’m not sure why. But beautiful women always seem to get their way.

This one would not, at least not tonight.

“I couldn’t do that,” I mumbled. “I couldn’t impose on you.”

She waved her hand. “It’s no imposition. Or ...” A thoughtful gleam entered her eyes. “You stay in my apartment. I’ll stay in yours, keep an eye out.”

“What? No.”

“Why not?”

“I ... I ... I’m going to stay in a hotel tonight. But thank you for the offer. Yeah.” My confidence increased with each word I spoke. I was taking charge, finally. “I’m just going to go in and get my things. Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what to do.”

Victoria watched me intently, and my stomach tingled as her eyes bored into me.

Beautiful women always get their way.

Victoria flipped back her hair. “All right. That’s a good idea. Uh ...” She gave a self-conscious chuckle. “I can see you don’t trust me. I don’t blame you. You’re smart not to.” Her lips formed an approving smile. “But, uh ... well. I hope I’ll see you around. Want to do dinner tomorrow? Byron and I will cook for you at my place.”

I had the most overwhelming urge to say no.

But at the same time, I wanted so badly to say yes.

However, the thought of just sharing dinner with this gorgeous woman sent my stomach into knots. This wasn’t something shy, timid, nervous me could handle.

My indecision led to a long, awkward moment of silence.

“All right,” Victoria said finally. “Come by at 7 if you want to. I hope to see you then. I’m in 504.” She gave me a smile and a wave, then she was gone.

I stood in place for quite a while after Victoria returned to her apartment.

504.

Only three doors down. It was a shame I didn’t already know my neighbors. But that’s how it had always been with me.

I turned to my own apartment door. The cop had left it halfway open, and I took a small, mouselike step.

There had been a note.

I had seen it with my own eyes!

I swallowed and crossed into my apartment. The lights had been on when I’d scurried out earlier, and they were still on. Holding my breath, I made my way to the kitchen.

There was no note.

Just like the cop had said.

Another kernel of suspicion wound its way into my mind. Had the cop taken the note himself, figuring its convenient disappearance would save him a bunch of trouble?

No. Now I was truly being ridiculous!

“Calm down,” I told myself. “Get what you need, then get the hell out of here.”

My first stop was my bedroom, where I planned to change out of my pajamas. I flicked on the lights, and there, in the middle of my neatly, perpetually made-up bed, was a stack of yellow post-it notes. On top of it was the pen I’d found earlier.

The post-its and the pen had not been there before.

I froze.

And I stared.

504. That was where Victoria was. All I had to do was turn around, and I could be at her place in five seconds.

But.

But.

I couldn’t trust her. Couldn’t trust her brother.

As if I were in a trance, I stepped toward the bed. I shifted the pen aside. Sure enough, on the top note, was a message in that beautiful cursive.

Here is the first thing I want you to do, Linda. I’ve been lonely. Get me some more Bics. I want friends.

I blinked. I re-read the note, the words blurring in my confused brain.

And then the pen moved. It rolled itself over to the note.

It righted itself and wrote, Please. Please, do this Linda. We’ll have fun!

“Oh, God,” I gasped. I stepped back, my eyes widening in horror. “Oh my fucking God.”

The next thing I knew, I was rapping frantically at Victoria’s door.

#

Byron answered first, and his eyes were full of sleep. “What is it?” he grumbled. “Quit making that racket.”

I ran past him into the living room. “Oh God, oh God.” My breaths came in heavy pants. “Where’s Victoria?”

Just then, Victoria appeared in the doorway of the living room. She wore a white T-shirt and plain black boxers. Her hair was tousled, and she rubbed at her eyes.

But when she saw me, she became instantly alert. “Linda! What is it?”

“The pen, the pen!”

"What?"

“The pen’s the one who wrote the note!”

“Well, uh ... ah.” Victoria gave a little, confused cough. “The pen?”

“I went into my bedroom! And there was a note. Another note! And then the pen ... it just started writing on its own!”

“Victoria.” Byron’s weary voice sounded on my left.

Victoria threw her brother a smile. “Hey, go sleep in my bed, all right?”

“Yeah, OK,” he mumbled. He made his way past Victoria and into her bedroom.

Once Byron had gone, Victoria clasped her hands together. “Now, what exactly happened?”

I told Victoria my tale, where I had found the pen, everything, my words tripping over one another. Two minutes later, I was out of breath, and she was studying me with ... I don't know.

It was as if she believed me.

“Take me to the pen,” Victoria said.

“What are you going to do?”

“I just want to see what’s going on.”

“Uh huh.” I ran my horribly dry tongue over my lips. “I’m not going back there.”

“OK. I understand,” Victoria said, and her eyes gleamed. It wasn’t an evil gleam, or even a menacing one-just ... spooky. It sent chills up my spine.

She was curious. Genuinely curious. Not afraid. That unnerved me.

“Stay here,” Victoria told me. “I’ll be back soon.”

Off she went, walking tall and strong, with nary a trace of apprehension.

I wasn’t sure what to do while Victoria was gone, and I prayed she would be back soon. But what if the pen got her?

Impossible. How does a pen “get” a nearly 6-foot-tall female who seems as strong as an ox?

But I knew there were ways. Pens made good weapons. I imagined that little grayish-black Bic stabbing Victoria through the heart, and I shuddered. What had Victoria been thinking, going off by herself?

I remained rooted in her living room. I wasn’t going after her. No way, no how. I was not setting eyes on that pen again if I could help it.

Several painfully long minutes passed, and no sounds reached my ears.

Then Victoria was back.

Somber.

Not frightened, but not happy, either.

One of her hands was behind her back, and she brought it in the open to reveal the pen.

I shrieked. “Why’d you bring that back here?”

Victoria furrowed her brows. “Linda, don’t be scared. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He’s just lonely.”

“He? He?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “The pen is a he?”

Victoria frowned. “Well ... maybe not. The writing is feminine.”

I gaped at her. “This is just a game to you. You think I’ve gone crazy. Fine. Fine. Whatever. Just, please, humor me. Destroy the pen. Burn it. Make sure it’s gone forever!”

Victoria stared at me. “Destroy it? I couldn’t. Just because it’s different--”

“Destroy it!” I screamed. “Please. Just do it.”

“Linda. Calm down and listen to me.” Victoria held her hands up, and she had a rationality in her voice that was sorely missing from mine.

I didn’t care. There was nothing she could say that would make me listen.

“Linda, he wrote to me,” she pleaded. “He just wants someone to write back.”

I laughed to cover my growing disbelief and confusion. “This is a dream,” I muttered. “Yes, that’s it exactly. I’ve fallen asleep watching TV on the living room couch. You don’t exist. Byron doesn’t exist. And that’s just a normal pen, not a crazy, haunted pen.”

The pen tumbled from Victoria's hand and found a sheet of paper. It wrote industriously.

Despite myself, I had to see what it had to say.

"Forget Linda," the pen wrote. "She's a party pooper."

I gasped indignantly. "Am not!"

"You should write your answer," Victoria chided me. She jotted: "Just give Linda some time. Please? I really like her."

I stared and blinked at Victoria's words.

I really like her.

"Do you like me, Linda?" Victoria asked.

Yes, yes, yes.

"I do," I squeaked.

"This pen brought us together. The least we can do is get it some friends, hmm?"

I thought a long, long moment.

If I said yes, would that be crazy?

Maybe so. Probably.

But was being crazy so wrong? It was better than being some boring congressional staffer.

I could have Victoria. And a ...

A haunted pen?

The pen wrote, "I'm pretty cool."

I stared at its words. Beautiful, flowing calligraphy.

Maybe if it could teach me to write like that ...

My heart pounded, and I told Victoria, "Yes, we should get it some friends."

Somehow, I managed to invite Victoria back to my apartment. The pen came with us.

Now, many months later, I still wonder if I am dreaming. I hope not—-I love Victoria, our growing brood of pens, and being crazy.

THE END