Forevermore Ch. 01

***

Day drinking with her new best friends had been swell, Belinda told herself as she hobbled two doors down to her house. She fumbled with her keys. Everything was still new and she was unaccustomed to the locks. As she held onto the brass handle for support, the door swung open. Jesus, she'd left the place wide open.

Belinda made sure to lock the door behind her. No more going out for her. Not tonight. Not after the eight or nine Jack and Cokes jostled around inside her addled brain and made her see double.

Once she made it to the bathroom, she stripped off everything. Belinda kept one hand on the wall to keep her steady. A nice hot bath would fix everything. Maybe then she'd even see only two hands unlike the four she saw right now as she stared at them in front of her.

The water was warm and the bubble bath was foamy and she melted into the water. One of the things that Belinda most loved about her new abode was the claw foot tub. Old galvanized tubs were beautiful. The clawed feet looked like a gargoyle and somehow that made her feel protected in its embrace. Gargoyles were meant to scare off evil. Of course Belinda didn't believe in evil but after all the spooky ghost talk she felt she needed a talisman of some kind.

Once she sank under the water and held her breath, she gasped as she came back up for air. The water streamed down her body in bubbly trails. She thought it wasn't the ghost story that scared her. It was the story of the man.

Poverty stricken, grief stricken, Poe's stories were full of guilt and regret. Belinda had always felt a lingering sadness there under it all. Maybe that was what she found frightening; the idea that some sadness just couldn't be shaken off. Some sadness seeped into your bones and then you were fucked, weren't you?

Fucked forevermore.

Belinda was too drunk and now too sad to answer the question. What she needed was a nap. Just a nice dinner time nap that might turn into the whole night if she was lucky. Everything would be better tomorrow. At least it sounded good once she rose from the tub and listened to the water trickle down her pale, warm limbs.

She stood in front of the mirror and wrote in the steam, "B E L I N D A". She always did that as a child. She had written her name on the foggy bathroom mirror and her mother had always yelled at her for leaving the traces of her name behind once the steam had dissipated.

Belinda froze in place.

As she watched, it was as if breath passed over her name. Air, warm air from something unseen breathed over it one letter at a time.

Belinda clasped her hand over her mouth. The breath, oh fuck, it was breath wasn't it? Breath from something that stood right next to her and had just erased her name altogether.

She grabbed the towel and whipped it around her body quickly. She clung to the door handle and then the wall as she made her way as quickly as her drunk feet could get her down the hall to her bedroom.

Belinda had ever been frightened before, not like this. Her heart beat so hard that her pulse trembled in her throat. She had never screamed. She'd never cried or ran to anyone for help. When she'd had a bad dream as a child, she had just sat on her bed, curled up in a ball. She'd kept the light on the rest of the night and rocked herself back and forth. Waiting. Watching.

All that terror just inside, on the edge. No screams, no tears and maybe that was why she couldn't cry about anything now, even when she wanted to.

Belinda didn't fall asleep, but eventually, blessedly, she passed out.

***

The nap had turned into a full night's sleep. Belinda didn't wake up until a little after ten the next morning. She stretched and decided that she was almost a new creature entirely. Holy Shit, Jack and Coke was like mother's milk and it had cured whatever ailed her.

In fact, she was starving, which seemed to be a good sign she was on the mend. Cigarettes couldn't sustain her forever. Belinda decided what she needed was to go rustle up a real breakfast. She wanted Eggs Benedict and maybe some pancakes too. She needed coffee and maybe even orange juice so that she could say she had some Vitamin C. It was no good to get the scurvy now, she thought with a smile as she tossed off her sheet.

One look at the bathroom mirror as she sat to pee and Belinda rolled her eyes. That was just more PTSD, she decided and smirked at her reflection as she pulled up her pants from yesterday. Stay away from crazy motherfuckers, she chided the girl in the glass. The next time you decide to take a little too much Xanax, do it in the privacy of your own home. Nobody's going to tell your sad story in a bar a hundred years from now.

Belinda didn't think it was right to ruin people's day drinking with stories like that.

The day went by in a sunny haze. Belinda floated by, encircled with cigarette smoke and with a nameless tune in her head. Breakfast was delicious and then a quick trip to the library proved to be quite interesting. They were big Fantasia Fox fans here at the Fell's Point library branch. There was a waitlist to check out the newest series of drivel.

She fussed with writing, which meant that she really just made notes on story ideas. But progress was progress, Belinda said as she looked at the screen. She'd spent all day and all she had to show for it was some notes. What happened to the flow? When the words just poured out of her like smooth bourbon into a heavy, crystal glass? There had been times when seven or eight thousand words a day had spilled onto the page effortlessly.

I just need two more books, Belinda said as she looked at the time. It was five o'clock somewhere and Belinda decided to call it. She chuckled with glee as she went to crack open her carefully tucked away bourbon. The Maker's Mark private selection was technically supposed to be saved for special occasions.

Not losing her mind was good enough.

Belinda's cell phone buzzed and she checked the screen. Her heart gripped and she had to set down the phone to hold her chest. God, she couldn't breathe. What had that asshole doctor said? It was just a panic attack. It was just her body tricking her into thinking that she actually needed her broken heart. It would pass.

The caller ID said Steven White; her ex-husband, ex-son of a bitch, ex-everything. He hadn't called her since before rehab. They hadn't spoken since the fire actually and that definitely hadn't been her finest moment.

Belinda collapsed on the kitchen floor. She let the call go to voicemail and wrapped one hand around the neck of the amber bottle. Okay, the plan went like this. Get shit faced on some very nice bourbon and then call the cocksucker and be as happy as she could be. Really sickeningly sweet. Like life wasn't threatening to drag her down into the swirling blackness.

No, nix that plan.

She'd call him while she was sober and she wouldn't respond in any way except to direct questions.

Wait, something was there. Belinda peered into the dark space of the shelf that wasn't full of bottles. It was a box and dammit, that hadn't been here when the beautiful Viking man delivered her prize liquor. She hadn't been back there since to set a box in this place. What the fuck was it?

She pulled it out. Black and dusty, it felt fragile, the way old books felt. Fragile and delicate like old skin and yet weighty and warped from damp and age. It smelled like it had been buried, there was something earthy and mineral to the scent. Maybe copper, maybe gold, maybe it was buried treasure that had been newly unearthed. Belinda inhaled and couldn't place the exact palate.

It was a Ouija board. The pentagram on the top of the box was engraved, something silver still shone through the black and the remnants of earth. Once upon a time, this was quite the spectacle, Belinda thought. Someone had treasured it and kept it safe. Now the only question was how the fuck did it get into the kitchen?

First things first. She needed a drink.

With trembling hands, Belinda opened the bottle. She listened to the sound of the bourbon as it hit the glass. Everything was amplified, everything seemed to have been heightened, like the hum in the house was now a part of the bottle and the glass. And her nervous, twitchy hand, Belinda thought as she held the glass with two hands. She didn't trust herself not to just let it drop.

One drink burned but just on the edges. The second drink went down like water, except way better tasting than water. After the third drink Belinda felt her heart settle down. Now, onto business. She needed the bottle and the cigarettes. She needed an ashtray, her phone and the mysterious box. Belinda settled on her new couch with all the required items.

She would pour a new glass and light the cigarette. After one exhale, she'd listen to the voicemail from the soulless asshole. Then she'd call him back and tell him she didn't listen to his message, just to be a cunt. Fucking a twenty-year-old in the hot tub had bought Belinda some bitterness, she thought he had it coming. She punched the voicemail button and the robot voice announced Steven but there was no message.

Tricky.

After a bit more bourbon, Belinda decided that she'd call him. All of their recent

communication had been through the lawyers. She hadn't really heard her husband's voice in so long and if she were honest, she missed it.

Belinda pressed his name on the screen.

"Hey," he answered on the second ring. He was warm and friendly, like they were buddies making plans to meet for dinner instead of adversaries. "Thanks for calling me back."

Belinda was careful to exhale away from the phone. Steven hated her smoking and for some stupid reason, that mattered right now. "Sure, no problem," her voice was deep and husky. It was her vixen voice which was really just her smoking quietly voice.

"I really just wanted to find out if you were out of rehab. You know, see if they let you out yet?" He sounded sorry and it seemed difficult for him to speak and Belinda liked that.

"Yeah I'm out," she confirmed. Quiet and polite, totally had her shit together. Not like the last time they'd talked. "I'm staying out here for a while," she flicked the cigarette and twirled her third glass of bourbon.

"You doing alright?"

"Yeah, good actually. I mean the whole thing was totally unnecessary but I guess it was good to decompress."

"Talk to your folks?"

"No Steve," she couldn't help it, just one, sarcastic jab. "I just got out of rehab, I don't need to go back." Belinda cracked up and took another drink. Steven just made an uncomfortable noise that meant he didn't think he should join in.

Wait a minute. It was the middle of the afternoon there and her workaholic ex-husband was taking time out to speak to her. Belinda twisted her mouth into a knot. He wasn't alone.

"So you're good though?"

He was talking to her like she might shatter into a million pieces, crazy people were treated like fine china. "Yup."

Trish was there. That's why he was talking like a robot and wouldn't laugh about her parents. Her parents? Christ, Steven hated her parents. Trish, little perky, college coed yoga instructor, sickeningly white bread Trish.

"Good, I'm glad things are working out. I have something to tell you."

That sound, that dry gulp, was the other shoe dropping. "Okay."

"I didn't want you to hear it from someone else."

"Tell me."

"Trish and I are having a baby."

Belinda's hand couldn't hold the glass. She almost dropped it and that would have been a pity. Regardless, at this moment she would have siphoned her bourbon through broken glass. Her fingers shook and it was almost impossible to click the lighter.

"Belinda?"

She finally got the cigarette lit and puffed hard, like her life depended on it.

"I guess rehab didn't help with the smoking," Steven said in his newly born again Christian tone, friendly but it's too bad you're going to hell.

Her mouth was numb. She couldn't feel her lips but she managed to twist the cigarette from one side to the other. Look Ma, no hands while I puff on a cancer stick.

"Belinda?" Steven almost shouted, "I guess she's not there," he mumbled. Belinda imagined Trish standing there with her thin, little arms folded across her chest. Trish, pushing her impossibly pert, young breasts into the open space where her yoga bra exposed her golden tan.

"I'm here," Belinda murmured. "Thank you for letting me know."

"Oh good, I thought maybe something happened."

"Like I killed myself?" Belinda's voice raised to full tear you a new asshole, shrill, dentist's drill. "What a fucking, narcissistic cunt you are, Steven."

"Hey, no reason to be that way, Belinda. I was legitimately concerned about you."

"If you were legitimately concerned about me, you would have kept your dick in your pants," Belinda barked at her ex. "You know, fucking a young girl isn't going to stop you from getting old," she threw that in. Steven was obsessed with youth and beauty. Soon he wouldn't be able to register a legitimate emotion on his face with all the fillers and laser treatments. "Neither is having a baby."

There, fuck you and your plan to stay perfect forever. Perfectly sealed up. Perfectly blonde. Perfectly white. Perfectly dead.

"I can see you're the same old Belinda, aren't you?"

Her hand was steady enough for the glass now and she took a drink. She'd never been perfectly anything. She'd always been a fucking mess but even when she'd overdosed on Xanax, she'd been alive. Vibrantly alive. And he'd hated that about her. She pulsed with life. All of it coursed through her like an ancient call, like her life couldn't be contained within her body. She was exactly like the walls around her in this house.

"Do me a favor, Steven," Belinda blew a full exhale into the phone. "Never check on me again. I'd rather forget that you and Trish even exist." And she pressed the red button like somehow she had simultaneously murdered him.

Better yet, Belinda made a snap decision, she'd block his fucking number. Fuck, technology was great. It gave you a whole universe of information and a solar system of connection. All she had to do was go online and she'd find support groups and chat groups and people to like and they'd like her.

Technology could also kill off any characters that she so chose. From now on, any character that was a douchebag, she was going to name Steven, Belinda promised herself with a buzzed smile. All future Stevens would be humiliated and tormented.

The pentagram caught the light and the box seemed to call to her. Like everything else in the house, it held an energy. Something radiated from within and Belinda was just buzzed enough to admit that it wasn't PTSD. She wasn't crazy, or at least she wasn't crazy like this. Fuck, she wasn't going to gaslight herself, that's what Steven had been for.

She opened the box and gently lifted the Ouija board from inside. It was beautiful. Unlike Ouija boards that she'd played with as a child, this wasn't a rectangle, it was a hexagon. It was a deep, emerald green. It was the color of moss that grew at the roots of an ancient tree. The color was even more dense than the sofa she sat on. It felt pagan, like something that one would find in a cave. As small as it was, it was quite heavy too, like it contained a treasure.

At the center of the board was a black cat. His eyes were the same green as the board. He rested in the center of another pentagram, this one made of a twisted vine that was cut into the wood. The letters around the hexagon were calligraphy and had been carved into the wood and then painted silver like the outer pentagram. The planchette was a miniature tree of life and Belinda felt her eyes get big as she touched it. It leapt under her fingers, like a nervous pony ready to break into a gallop.

Fuck, the thing was as alive as the house, as alive as she was. Belinda couldn't help but wonder if something had changed because she had coded. Perhaps that little bit of time when they couldn't find her heartbeat, when they were about to call it and give her a toe tag; perhaps she'd crossed over just enough that she was now her own ghost story.

The lamp behind her flickered. Belinda felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She could see her breath and it mixed with the shadows across the room. It was cold, cold like a tomb and yet still the warm vibration beat like a drum, pulsing underneath it all.

Like breath on a mirror.

Belinda cleared her throat and placed her fingers on the planchette. She felt the jolt, the hum and then the magnetic draw to her fingers. She almost expected a crackle to spit out and catch fire, like bad wiring.

"Am I alone right now?" Her voice sounded far away, as if she was speaking through a watery substance; amniotic fluid.

The planchette flew to no.

Well, at least spirits were direct, which was more than she could say for most humans.

"Are you in the spirit world?"

The planchette quickly moved to the left and hovered over yes.

She gulped hard. It was an awful thought, really, did she even want to know? Would she ever be able to sleep? "How many spirits are in this house?"

The planchette hovered over the number one.

Okay, one was good. It wasn't like a whole bunch of slaughtered Indian souls were just waiting to snatch her through the screen of her Surface Pro. Good thing she didn't watch television.

"What is your name?"

The planchette moved up to the calligraphy alphabet. E D G A R. It hovered and the vibration from the planchette traveled up Belinda's forearms. Her veins radiated with light, a green, mossy light shone through her skin.

Fuck, this wasn't her imagination. The day drinking old timers were right,

"Am I speaking to Edgar Allan Poe?" her voice quavered.

The planchette flew to yes.

No fucking way.

"Are you the presence that I feel here?"

Yes.

"Was it your breath on the mirror?"

Yes.

Belinda had chills and yet, she was feverishly hot. Her body quivered with the cold and she was covered in goosebumps. Her breath was a steam that enveloped in clouds around her and cloaked her in vapor. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck and trickled between her shoulder blades. Her body was in a state of fight or flight.

"What do you want from me?" she asked quietly. He had to want something, right? The power that emanated from this energy, that wasn't just for parlor tricks, he didn't just fuck with the lights.

The planchette lurched over the letters. TO BE WITH YOU.

Belinda took her fingers off and gasped for air. She felt like she had been held under and had just clawed her way to freedom. Maybe buried alive like Madeline Usher. She sat back on the couch and curled her hands around her knees and scrunched into a ball, as small as she could make herself be.

There were only two choices. One: she was certifiably nuts and in which case, rehab was like kindergarten. She needed a full blown psychiatric intervention. Like with a straight jacket. Put something in her mouth so she doesn't bite. Fucking loony tunes.

Or.

"Don't doubt your sanity, my love," the voice came from nowhere and everywhere all at once. It was in the house and in her head all at the same time. It was a man's voice, deep and resonant, rich and expressive. There was the hint of a southern ease, not quite a drawl, just no hurry about the syllables.

"I'm fucking hearing voices," Belinda quipped, "I think that's actually the first sign of insanity." She said it out loud but was she still talking to herself or had she always been speaking to the other?

"I've been waiting for you," the voice came back. It wasn't exactly a whisper, it was quieter than the first utterance and it felt closer. It was a man's breath that cascaded down the back of her neck.